


To Catch a Soul

by DrowningByDegrees-Art (DrowningByDegrees), layersofsilence



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A Matter of Life and Death - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Discussed major character death, Fluff, Inspired by a Film, M/M, Shrunkyclunks, Shrunkyclunks Big Bang 2018, Stairway to Heaven, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, for a given value of modern, that doesn't happen! donut worry!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 03:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13802649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees-Art, https://archiveofourown.org/users/layersofsilence/pseuds/layersofsilence
Summary: When Steve Rogers pilots the Valkyrie into the cold waters of the English Channel, he expects to die. He doesn’t expect to wake up on a beach, he doesn’t expect to bump into the wireless operator he’d talked to on the way down, and he certainly doesn’t expect to like Bucky as much as he does.But, according to the angel now following him around, it turns out that Steve had been supposed to die, on that fateful morning. And to stay on Earth – to stay with Bucky – Steve faces what is, quite literally, the fight of his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) this is based on a 1946 film called A Matter of Life and Death, with
> 
> 2) embedded art by the lovely [DrowningByDegrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees)! It was great working with you <3

The Valkyrie is, right now, nothing more than a rattling death-trap of vaguely functional parts suspended thirty thousand feet above the surface of the Earth, but that height means it offers a breathtaking view; Steve’s not sure whether the sight truly is as wonderful as it seems or whether his brain is searching desperately for a distraction, any distraction, but the fact of the matter is that he’s finding he can lose himself in the way that the sun is rising slowly over the horizon, the way it sets the clouds alight in perennial blooms of red and yellow. Peggy’s increasingly frantic half-shouted maydays and Dernier’s fingers tight around the edge of the pilot’s seat seem – not unimportant, but muted. Vague. There’s a queer blank sensation in Steve’s head that feels like his brain’s gone and shorted out, briefly, cut away the urgency of the situation, because all he can focus on now is the way that the dawn looks like it’s being set on fire.

It takes another ominous shudder of the plane to shake Steve back to himself, into a somewhat normal mindset, to make him tear his eyes away from the flame-edged clouds below him. “You need to go,” he snaps at his team. He can’t help but be thankful that he’d haggled them down to a three-person team.

Dernier starts to swear at him in French, and Peggy shakes her head, firm and resolute, but Steve learned had learned stubbornness before he’d learned to walk, and it more than able to stare the two of them down while the overworked equipment around them creaks angrily, while the air roars through the cabin and makes a proper and level-headed negotiation impossible.

“I’ll push you, you know I will,” he threatens, once it becomes apparent that they are, for the moment, in a stalemate. The plane shudders again, more dramatically, once he lets go of the steering yoke, and he uses the chance to get in close, to check their parachutes with hands that don’t shake.

Peggy grabs Steve by one of the many straps on his uniform. “You’d better get down safely,” she snaps, quiet but also somehow overwhelmingly audible. “ _Wedge the yoke_ , Steve.”

“Yeah, okay, just _go_ ,” Steve snaps, because this decidedly isn’t the time to start fighting her on whether a _yoke_ is something he’s willing to trust millions of potential lives on. It’s east to keep his back his back to Peggy and Dernier as he pushes them towards the hole at the back of the plane. It takes an instant and an eternity and for a moment Steve’s sure that Peggy’s intelligent brown eyes can see right through him and into the scratched-up parachute that’s he’s left strapped onto his back, like it’ll be any use at all if he needs it, but they jump, finally, _finally_ , and their parachutes blossom out after them.

Then, of all noises, the crackle of a radio brings Steve back from the fog above the Channel and back into the ruined cockpit of the Valkyrie.

“Request your position,” the radio says, so unexpected that for a moment Steve can only stare at the dashboard. “Come in, Valkyrie.” And, well, once he’s gotten over his surprise that Peggy’s signal actually got somewhere Steve still has to contend with the fact that the voice over the radio is so incongruously, unexpectedly American – and not only American, but _Brooklyn_. For one wild moment Steve can only think that he’s dreaming, or dying.

“Come in, Valkyrie,” the voice says again. Fuck, but Steve needs to pull himself together.

“This is the Valkyrie!’ he shouts into the radio, once he’s managed to struggle back into the pilot’s seat mostly be virtue of sheer force of will, hoping that the wireless operator hasn’t changed his frequency yet and left him to shout into static.

“Can’t read you!” the wireless operator half-shouts back. “Request your position.”

“I can’t give you my position!” Steve yells. “My crew’s gone. They bailed out on my order. My instruments are shot to hell.” The little needles behind their smashed-glass cases directly in front of Steve’s nose wobble at this, as though to illustrate the point.

“Crew bailed out, approximately 7.35,” the wireless operator says.

“That’s right,” Steve says, more afterthought than solid confirmation, trying the steering yoke again. He hadn’t seen how it’d happened, but in the fight against Schmidt it’d been damaged – it barely moves to the right or the left, to the point where he’s afraid to push anymore lest it snap right off; it does move up and down, slow and reluctant, as long as he pushes hard enough. “This is Captain Steve Rogers!” he adds into the radio, because he hasn’t the first idea about how RAF etiquette works and the last thing he wants, right now, is for them to shoot at a plane full of bombs.

“Captain Steve Rogers,” the wireless operator repeats. “Are you all right? Are you going to try to land? Do you want a fix?”

“A fix,” Steve mutters to himself. If only they _could_ fix this. “The plane’s too damaged to land!” he what he yells instead, through the roaring air and the static to an anonymous wireless operator somewhere close to below him. “I’m going to put her in the water.”

“The – you what?” the wireless operator demands. He sounds even more Brooklyn when he’s surprised, Steve notes somewhat absently.

“She’s carrying bombs!” Steve yells, possibly louder than he needs to, but he’s keyed up and jittery and thinks he can be excused that. “I’m putting her in the water!” Every instinct in his body is telling him to get off this death trap of a plane, and here he is instead, staying. “Can – can you take a telegram?”

The wireless operator stutters for a few seconds, but eventually he manages to get out a, “Received your message. We can hear you.”

“To Agent Margaret Carter –” He has no idea where to address the letter, but Peggy’s famous enough as his second-in-command that the wireless operator should be able to send her a telegram, he thinks. “Tell her I’m sorry,” he says, “but I’m not fucking willing to risk millions of lives on a wedge, or words to that effect. I don’t know, maybe take out the fucks. I’m pressed for time.” When he starts to push down on the steering yoke the plane goes down, obedient. The Channel winks up at him from behind thick suffocating fog. “Give my love to the Howlies – Howling Commandos. Don’t forget them.”

“Received your message,” the wireless operator says. “We can hear you. Are you wounded? Repeat, are you wounded? Are you bailing out?”

“Negative,” Steve says, and before the wireless operator can respond he jumps in with a question of his own, anything to keep him occupied. “What’s your name?”

“James Barnes,” the wireless operator says. He hesitates, and then static crackles as he adds, “My friends call me Bucky.”

“Where were you born?”

“Brooklyn,” Bucky says, and Steve can hear the smile in his voice. He wants to see that smile in person, abruptly.

“I thought I was going mad when I heard your accent over the wireless,” he says. There’s a smile on his own face, he realises, as he adds, “That’s where I come from, too. Do I know you?”

“Family moved to Indiana when I was four,” Bucky says. “We kept the accent, though.”

“Best accent in the world,” Steve asserts, the engrained desire to establish his borough as the best coming out in him even now. “Where d’you live now? On the station?”

“No,” Bucky says. “A flat in Malborough. Two miles away. Ten minutes on my bike.”

“Flat ride?” Steve asks, because he really has nothing better to think about.

“Mostly,” Bucky agrees. And, bless him, he seems to have picked up on exactly what Steve wants. “But sometimes I go out of my way a little, and drop by a cove on the way back. It’s a tiny little thing, but it’s sandy. Good place to relax. I can almost get away from it all, there.”

“Can’t help but see the planes, though,” Steve points out, and Bucky hums in agreement.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, and Steve can hear the hysteria lurking behind the words. “You want to go down with the plane, don’t you?”

“I don’t _want_ to, necessarily,” Steve counters. “It’s rigged full of bombs, for London and then for America. Everything’s broken.”

“The Channel’s freezing in March,” Bucky says.

“Don’t tell me that,” Steve says, nervousness cracking in his chest. “Tell me – something else.”

There’s a short, dreadful silence where Steve is briefly sure that he’s been passed on to someone else, or had his frequency blocked altogether, and he will have to make the rest of this mad slow descent in silence with himself. “You could come visit me as a ghost,” Bucky says, then, and Steve relaxes. “The house I’m in is older than God, probably. You’ll fit right in.”

“Yeah?” Steve hums. He can think of worse fates, to be sure. But, for whatever reason, he doesn’t particularly want to hear more about the house when he can hear more about Bucky. And there’s no reason not to indulge himself, now. “When will you be home?”

“I’m on duty til eight,” Bucky says obligingly. “I have breakfast in the mess, then I have to cycle about ten minutes. Longer if I stop by the beach.”

“Stop by the beach this morning for me, will you?” Steve asks. _Look up at the sky for me_ , he nearly adds. It doesn’t even make sense in his head, so he bites his tongue instead. “And – Buck?”

“Sure, Stevie,” Bucky says. “What?”

“If you’re there when they pick me up,” Steve says. “Just – turn your head away for me.”

The silence is longer this time, and when Bucky responds it’s with another, shorter, “Sure, Stevie,” that manages to sound fragile despite Bucky’s obvious best efforts.

“Cheers, Buck,” Steve says. “I was lucky to get you.”

“You’re a punk,” Bucky says, voice still fragile but more resolved, now. The water in front of Steve is alarmingly close. Steve pushes down harder on the steering yoke.

“And you’re a jerk,” he replies. “Signing off now –”

Then all he knows is bright, freezing cold. He could swear that in the chaos of the water he can hear Bucky’s voice saying, “Steve? Steve?” and a vague sort of noise that sounds terribly upset, even though that’s impossible because radio equipment isn’t waterproof. Then – then he doesn’t know anything.

~*~

Steve’s fucking _cold_. It’s the first thing he notices, because things weren’t bad enough for him as it is. He hates the cold, he decides grumpily. If there had to be an afterlife, it didn’t need temperatures below sixty degrees.

The second thing he notices is the sand in his – well, everywhere. There is sand in every crevice of his body and clothes.

“Off to a good start,” he mumbles, stumbling to his feet. There are no starbursts of pain through his body, only a dull deep ache, so he’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any broken bones. That’s something, he supposes. And he was still big, which was another plus.

He’s in a shallow area – a cove, like Bucky had described to him. Small and sandy and surrounded by greenery. He suspects that this is because it was the location he was thinking about when he went down. The sun has cleared the horizon, and there’s a fairly horrifying fog over the ocean – one he knows Peggy would call a peasouper – that doesn’t look to be dissipating under the weak sunshine anytime soon. It makes Schmidt seem fairly insane for trying to fly the Valkyrie under these conditions, but then, it seems more and more likely that he was.

Steve’s thoughts go back to Bucky, relentless. It hadn’t been a terribly good thing that he’d done, forcing Bucky to engage with Steve and share parts of himself when they both knew that Steve was going to die; under any other circumstances he’d be calling it downright unkind, and maybe it was, but – he’d gone down thinking of something other than his impending death. Bucky’s weak jokes had almost been enough to put a smile on his face, and surely that was worth something?

There’s nothing he can do about it, now. And nothing seems to be happening while Steve stands still and thinks, except the waves continuing to slide obliviously, carelessly, on and off the sand. He has nothing to lose by going out and exploring, he decides, and as he decides he turns around and begins striding purposefully up and out of the cove only to promptly bump into someone.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says hastily, reaching out to steady the other man.

“I – no, it’s fine,” the guy says, and Steve gets a good look at his face and he looks so _tired_ , and, well – if this is what the afterlife does then Steve’s not entirely sure he’s on board, he thinks, while his brain simultaneously notices that the man sounds familiar.

It kind of looks like the other man thinks the same, with the way he’s squinting at Steve. “You – you’re Steve!” he says.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, baffled. “Did you die too?”

“Die? What?” Bucky asks. “No, I – fuck, I must look pretty dead. In my defence,” he bounces up on his toes to say, “that’s your fault. I barely ate. That was a mean fucking trick,” he says, even as he subsides slightly.

“If it was a trick, it’s on me,” Steve mutters. He has no idea how to feel about this development. “I thought I was dead.”

“So did I, you punk,” Bucky says.

“Jerk,” Steve grumbles. He stares at his hands a little, and they don’t look dead. And for all that Bucky looks haggard and worn he doesn’t look particularly dead either. And then a plane flies over the two of them, and the afterlife probably doesn’t need those. Those three things combined are probably conclusive evidence. “D’you know what happened to the Valkyrie?” he asks. 

“We managed to pick it up on the radar,” Bucky says. “As far as we can tell, it went down. And – oh,” he cuts himself off. “I sent that telegram from the station. Your team are going to be – unhappy.”

“I’ll send them a follow-up,” Steve says, wincing a little at the prospect of the chewing-out Peggy is going to subject him to. He’d almost prefer being dead. Almost. “Is there a post office in your city?”

“Malborough’s more of a village, but yeah, of course,” Bucky says. “We’re not heathens just because we’re out here.”

“Oh, no, that’s not –” Steve starts anxiously, and then stops at the small grin blooming on Bucky’s face. “Ha _ha_.”

“Well,” Bucky says, a little tentatively. “The offer to haunt my house still stands. If you need to a place to stay while you wait for your marching orders, or something.” His eyes meet Steve’s, bright and earnest, which means that this is not a good time for Steve to be noticing that Bucky – that Bucky’s, well, beautiful. Of course awkward timing doesn’t stop his rogue brain, though.

“That – that’d be good, yeah, yes please,” Steve manages to get out without, he thinks, blushing too hard or staring too obviously. Bucky’s eyes seem to flick down to Steve’s cheeks, though, so maybe he’s failed on the not-blushing front.

“Don’t suppose you have a bike?” Bucky asks, starting back up the cove and beckoning Steve to follow.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says, deciding he also hates trudging through sand, “in my descent from, y’know, thirty thousand feet and a crash into the Channel, I made sure to keep a _bicycle_ with me.”

“Okay, okay, no need to be sarcastic about it,” Bucky says through a smile as they come across his bike, left haphazardly on the grass.

“Nah,” Steve says, still extremely sarcastic, “it’s not like it was a dumb question, or anything.”

“Alright, fuck, I get it,” Bucky grumbles. Or, he tries to grumble; the grin he’s failing to suppress ruins the effect slightly. He pulls his bike up with one hand, looks critically at it, and then looks Steve up and down. It’s nothing but businesslike, but it still makes Steve want to blush. “Think you can fit?”

“No,” Steve says bluntly. The bike doesn’t look big enough to accommodate Bucky, let alone Steve and Bucky.

“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Bucky scolds. “Just for that, we’re trying.”

“No,” Steve says again, but Bucky swings his leg over the bike and beckons Steve forward and, well, Steve kind of wants to see how badly this is going to fail. “Fine,” he snaps then, sounding a lot less grumpy than he wants to, and steps forward to balance precariously behind Bucky, clutching at his shoulders.

“This is not going to work,” he says as he shifts, tries to find the best and least distracting grip on Bucky’s shoulders.

“Stop being a wet blanket,” Bucky says. He even pauses a little between each word, presumably so that Steve knows he’s serious. “Ready?”

“No,” Steve says for a third time, just to be a shit, and with unerring aim Bucky’s hand flies backwards to smack him in the ribs.

“Ready?” he asks again.

“Fine, yes, go,” Steve tries to snap, but he’s pretty sure that this time Bucky’s the one who can hear the smile in his voice.

They actually do manage to start off well, to Steve’s surprise, mostly by virtue of Bucky pushing off the ground so hard that Steve’s not sure the bicycle isn’t airborne for a few moments. The next five seconds are spent wobbling disastrously, and then Steve can’t help himself, he snorts with laughter and then Bucky starts to laugh as well and then it’s all over; it’s only a matter of time before the bicycle overbalances and dumps the two of them on the ground, practically on top of each other.

Steve can feel the desperate strange adrenaline rush of just being alive and the frankly awful humour of the situation mix together in his laughter and lets it, lets it drain out of him slowly. “I can’t believe you made me do that,” Steve gasps out. His limbs feel light and jittery, like they want to make the most of the movement they’re allowed to have. “Am I _five_? Fuck, _you’re_ five, aren’t you.”

“You caught me,” Bucky says through his own cackles. “My deepest secret. I’m five years old.”

Steve sighs out the end of his laughter, or at least he means to. The noise of it must be amusing to Bucky, because he starts laughing again, and that just sets Steve off until they’re back where they started, leaning against each other on the grass gasping for breath with tears in their eyes and a bicycle that seems to be glaring disapprovingly.

“That bike is _glaring at us_ ,” Steve says, which only exacerbates the situation.

“Oh my god,” Bucky groans, and then he rolls over and plants his face firmly against the ground, which just – it’s hilarious in that moment, inexplicably.

“Okay,” Steve says, taking a deep breath. “Okay, okay, we’re calm.”

“Speak for yourself, buddy,” Bucky turns his head to mutter. Steve snorts kind of desperately. He can feel himself teetering on the edge of losing it again.

“How long will it take to walk?”

“Maybe half an hour,” Bucky says, except he’s still faceplanted into the ground so it sounds like, “Mhhlfer.” Steve feels like he should be kind of concerned about how he’s known Bucky for about an hour, counting the time on the plane, but can already decode this kind of garbled speech.

“Let’s go,” he says as he pushes himself up. Bucky holds a hand behind him, blindly, and Steve smacks it.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky whines.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve tries to volley back, except he doesn’t think he pulls the whining tone off as well.

“Ugh,” Bucky says, grabbing Steve’s hand and using it to pull himself up. “Look at my bike. Look what you did to her.”

“What _I_ did?” Steve sputters indignantly, looking at the bent mental where his feet had been. “Who insisted I stand there in the first place?”

“Okay,” Bucky says, after a moment of contemplation. “That’s a fair point. Hey,” he adds, only a second later, “d’you think you’d fit into the basket?”

“ _No_ ,” Steve says, very firmly, and grabs the bike out of Bucky’s hands before he can force Steve into trying, or something.

“Unfair,” Bucky complains. “Fine, spoilsport, let’s go back to Malborough.”

They start walking, and while Steve can appreciate that the sea is a noisy, attention-seeking presence, that the expanse of grass around them is beautiful, somehow his eyes keep returning to Bucky – the jut of his jawline, his messy dark hair, his light eyes.

“So, not to be nosy, so tell me to fuck off if you want –” Steve starts, mostly so that he’s not being creepy just by staring. It’s normal to look at someone you’re conducting a conversation with, isn’t it?

“Fuck off,” Bucky says promptly, but the grin on his face kind of invalidates the phrase, and Steve is comfortable enough that his response is only to elbow the other man in the ribs.

“Fuck off yourself,” he says. “How’d you end up here? Operating a wireless?”

“Long story,” Bucky says immediately, but the words and the silence that falls after them is more contemplative than dismissive, so Steve waits. “I was with the army, and I was good enough with the radios that when I broke my arm they stuck me on the wireless. And they haven’t let me go since, so, y’know, I got shuffled around a few stations, and ended up here.”

“You like it?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, not to live in for the rest of my life, but for now it’s a nice place,” Bucky says slowly. “I like the big cities too much for that,” he adds with a grin.

“I didn’t know Indiana had any big cities,” Steve says automatically, and neatly dodges the elbow Bucky sends his way.

“Hey, don’t bash Indianapolis –”

“You’d bash it too, if you lived in New York,” Steve promises.

“That an invitation?” Bucky asks, eyebrow raising. Steve shrugs, hoping that his cheeks aren’t too red.

“I mean, sure. You can come haunt my house as a ghost too, if you want.”

“Oh, what an offer,” Bucky laughs. “How can I resist?”

“Good thing you don’t have to,” Steve offers, and can’t help but smile when Bucky laughs again.

“Good thing I don’t have to,” he agrees. “Now I get to ask you a question, that’s how this works, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” Steve says, and is nearly cut off by Bucky’s slightly too-forceful, “What the _fuck_ possessed you to dump a plane in the Channel?”

“Oh my god, don’t hold back or anything,” Steve grumbles. Bucky only raises an eyebrow, and Steve can feel his shoulders slump. “I mean, you heard me. It was on autopilot, headed for London and then America. And my bombs guy couldn’t disarm them.”

“So you thought you’d just go ahead and blow up the Channel,” Bucky says, startling a laugh out of Steve.

“Yeah, exactly,” he agrees. “I just thought, you know, that fucking Channel. It’s so annoying to fly over. I should go ahead and blow it up.”

“I mean, how many opportunities does the average person get to blow up the Channel in their lifetime?” Bucky asks.

“None,” Steve says. “How could I pass it up?”

“Maybe,” Bucky says. “But I’d rather you didn’t do it again, you asshole. You’re growing on me.”

“How long have you known me?” Steve points out. “An hour?”

“Shows how fucking annoying you are,” Bucky grumbles. “Like a weed, you are. Overdramatic punk.”

“You’re such a _jerk_ ,” Steve has to say, somewhat in awe of this.

“You have no room to talk,” Bucky says. “None.”

“Neither do you!” Steve says indignantly. Bucky tips his head back to laugh again, and Steve is caught between warring urges to keep looking and turn his eyes away. When Bucky meets his eyes Steve thinks there might be something knowing there.

He tries to avert his eyes, but Bucky steps closer, so that they’re brushing shoulders, and points to a cluster of buildings in the distance. “That’s Malborough,”

It is indeed a small village, and Steve doesn’t know how to react to it. Or, more precisely, he doesn’t know how to react to Bucky’s shoulder pressed against his, warm and solid. The village doesn’t really elicit a reaction from him.

“Where’s this house I was invited to haunt?” Steve asks.

“Off on the west side,” Bucky says, gesturing in the appropriate direction. “It’s an old house that’s been divided into poky flats.”

“Sounds enchanting,” Steve says dryly.

“I can’t wait for you to see it,” Bucky says, with enthusiasm so false it makes Steve’s eyes hurt. “There’s the mold, the damp, the questionable floor – hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if it went and caved in under you,” he says, with a slight emphasis on the _you_ and a quick up-and-down look at Steve that makes him flush warm.

“Uh,” Steve says, doing a very bad job of hiding how flustered he is. Bucky’s grin transmutes into something a little more smug, a little more predatory, and it makes everything _worse_.

“Come on,” Bucky says, apparently taking mercy on Steve and taking his hand to lead him towards Malborough. This is a completely unnecessary move, given that they are alone in a field and have a clearly visible destination ahead of them, but Steve doesn’t protest. He even, after a moment, moves his thumb slightly so that it rests on Bucky’s hand.

“Tell me about yourself?” he asks.

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Bucky says.

“Fuck you, jerk,” Steve grumbles, but casts around for a topic. “Uh –”

“Shouldn’t you be the one telling me about yourself?” Bucky asks, before Steve can settle on a topic. “I told you all about me over the radio.”

“Only if we trade,” Steve bargains, and Bucky huffs out a laugh, shakes their entwined hands in a move that’s probably meant to be reminiscent of a handshake. The only thing it really achieves is to bring Steve’s attention back to the fact that they’re holding hands, which is – far too distracting. 

“Fine,” Bucky says. “Uh – family?”

The walk to Malborough is simultaneously too long for Steve’s weary body and too short for his conversation with Bucky. They manage to talk to each other all the way there, and for such a comparatively short walk they somehow manage to fill it with a wide variety of topics: family (“I don’t have much to speak of.” “I have too many. Or _two_ many, since I have two sisters. Becca and Beth. We like Bs.”), living arrangements (“Believe me, after the shitty flats in Brooklyn your flat’s going to be fine.” “You say that _now_.”), hobbies (“Drawing. I like drawing.”) and even the weather (“Well the sunlight here is shit, and so is the electricity. I hope you didn’t mean to do any arting here.”)

They’ve just gotten round to linguistics (“Arting isn’t a word,” Steve protests), when they start to enter the village proper and Bucky tugs their hands free of each other. 

“You might wanna lose that oversized belt, too,” Bucky says in what he probably thinks is a helpful manner, poking at Steve’s waist.

“Um,” Steve says. When he looks down he finds that while they look very battered he is indeed wearing the red-and-white stripes around his waist. “Right. That might be – smart.”

“I am that,” Bucky says, tugging at the belt. “Your uniform might vanquish me, though. It has too many buckles and straps to be normal.”

“It’s meant to look intimidating,” Steve mumbles. 

“Oh, it does that just fine,” Bucky assures him, but something in his voice and the set of his mouth makes Steve wary. He narrows his eyes, and, sure enough, Bucky’s lips start twitching. A little more staring, and Bucky starts to _giggle_. It’s impossibly for Steve to keep a straight face against that, but he tries.

“You think this is so funny,” he grumbles, “you try wearing it for months.”

“Maybe if it was a little more subtle,” Bucky tries, holding back his gasps of laughter with admirable resolve. “In the – colouring.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve grumbles. “You get to hold this, now,” he says, dumping the still-damp belt into Bucky’s hands. Now that it’s no longer on his body and he doesn’t have to crane his neck to see it, he can’t help but notice that the thing is still absurdly bright, despite the best efforts of the fight and the waters of the Channel.

“Oh, the things I do for you,” Bucky says. “Take a left here. No, a left –”

“I know what left is,” Steve says, slightly indignant. “I was just looking.”

“Sure, sure,” Bucky says, bumping his shoulder against Steve’s. “You keep telling yourself that, Rogers.”

“You’re such a jerk,” Steve says, leaning into the contact possibly a little more than is appropriate.

“Careful,” Bucky says, even as he wraps an arm around Steve. “Malborough’s a small fuckin’ place.”

“Oh,” Steve says. When he looks around again, the houses look like they have eyes. “Ah – then why –?”

“With the way you look, I’m just giving you a hand,” Bucky says.

“The way I – oh,” Steve says, realising that he must look pretty battered. Fuck, once he lets himself pay attention to his body he feels pretty battered, and with the serum in his blood that’s saying something.

“Make the most of it,” Bucky says, and then makes a turn sharp enough that Steve nearly stumbles. “Sorry. Here –”

“That is an old house,” is all that Steve can think to say. The house in front of him _looms_. It’s the only way he can say it.

“The more time you spend looking at it, the more intimidating it’s going to get,” Bucky says, hustling Steve inside. “Believe me, I know.”

“James Barnes,” an old lady’s voice says almost as soon as they’re inside the building, “what on Earth are you up to now?”

“We picked up an American soldier down at the station, Mrs Cole,” Bucky says smoothly. “I’m putting him up for a few nights while he waits for his orders.” Fuck, they’d totally missed the post office on the way here, Steve realises then, but his eyelids feel so heavy that even he has to admit he wouldn’t be able to put together a proper telegram right now. 

“Dear me,” Mrs Cole says, in the most mournfully British tone Steve has ever heard. She starts to offer food and caution him about the mice, and Bucky, with clear practice, evades all these questions and conversation starters and has Steve bundled up the stairs in under a minute.

“I have a feeling that’s not the first time you’ve run away from her,” Steve says under his breath, as they climb.

“You can shut the fuck up, okay,” Bucky say. “I put in my time once a week when I have lunch with her on Thursdays. And I didn’t run away,” he adds after a pause, although this is said with very little conviction.

“Sure you didn’t,” Steve says as Bucky opens the door to his rooms. “Was that unlocked?”

“No,” Bucky says, and waves a key in Steve’s face. “You were just too busy bitching to see me unlock the door. Anyway,” he says louder, so that Steve doesn’t have time to come up with a good response to this, “welcome to my humble abode,” he says, waving a hand through the air, fake-grand so Steve can’t help but laugh.

“It really is like my apartment in Brooklyn,” Steve says, and pretends to wipe away a tear. “It’s making me homesick.”

“Yeah, yeah,” James says.

“Don’t _dismiss my emotions_ ,” Steve warbles, and Bucky starts laughing again. In truth, the apartment here only bears a passing resemblance to his old one, mostly by way of having passed small some time ago and ended up on the wrong side of poky. Otherwise it’s far more damp, slightly better insulated against the cold, has smaller windows armed with thicker curtains, and the walls are plastered with ugly beige wallpaper instead of ugly white wallpapeer.

“I could acknowledge your emotions, but I could also direct you to the bathroom so you can get that sand off you,” Bucky says. “It’s the first door on the left.”

“What, can’t you do both?” Steve asks, but the bitching is slightly undermined by the fact that he’s already in the bathroom testing out the water. It’s tepid even when the knob is turned all the way to hot and the water pressure is abominable, but it’s better than the sea.

He thinks Bucky makes another snarky comment, or maybe that’s just his imagination filling in the gaps, because taking off the suit feels fucking amazing – and no wonder, sand is cascading everywhere – and getting into the shower feels even better, water sluicing down his body.

“I was going to come in and leave you some clothes,” Bucky says, as soon as Steve steps into the living-dining-entry room with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, “but you looked like you had a lot of sand in that suit and I really don’t want to step in that.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve says, ignoring the fact that he’d had to hop very precariously across the tiled floor to avoid the sand, “ _that’s_ the reason I don’t have clothes on.”

“Are you questioning my intentions?” Bucky gasps, mock-offended. Steve opens his mouth to respond emphatically in the positive, but Bucky lobs a set of clothes into his face before the words can properly come out of his mouth.

“Fuck you,” Steve says instead. “I hope you know the only reason I didn’t catch that was because I’m tired,” he shoots at Bucky, and retreats into the bathroom to change, clothes trapped against his chest by his free arm. 

When he exits the bathroom again, he nearly yelps because Bucky is across the hall with his arms crossed, which, given the girth of the hall, means he’s right in Steve’s face. Before Steve knows what’s happening Bucky has a firm grip on his upper arm and is guiding him down the corridor.

“Um,” he says.

“Bed,” Bucky says, opening what turns out to be a bedroom door.

“Um,” Steve says again.

“No, I’ve thought this through,” Bucky says. “My work’s late so I sleep late. If you take a nap now it means less fighting tonight over who gets the bed.”

“Well, you would, obviously, I wouldn’t inconvenience you like that –” Steve starts automatically.

“Yeah, exactly, that kind of fighting,” Bucky interrupts. “Good job recreating exactly what I’d say, by the way.”

“What? No, that’s what I’d say,” Steve protests, but the sight of an actual bed has ramped up his fatigue from 10 to 100 and he’s not entirely sure that anything he’s saying makes sense. “Stop stealing my words.”

“I’ll stop stealing your words if you go steal my bed,” Bucky says. “You’re swaying on your feet, look at you.”

“’M fine,” Steve says, but it’s a token protest and everyone in the room knows it, including the bed, which creaks long-sufferingly as Steve climbs onto it. 

“Sure y’are,” Bucky says, and then – instead of leaving he hovers, kind of, at the doorway. Steve could close his eyes and it’d be a dismissal. He doesn’t want Bucky to leave.

“C’mon, you big lunk,” he mutters, and pats the bed.

Bucky breathes out, amusement in the noise, and then he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t strictly need to fiddle with the blankets, Steve is fine, but he pulls the duvet and a few of the many blankets right up to Steve’s chin anyway, uses the movement as an excuse to rest his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve _melts_ into the contact, and it feels like his whole body turns towards Bucky, iron filings towards a magnet, a moth to a flame.

“I didn’t,” Steve says muzzily, because he really is teetering on the brink of sleep but he’s just remembered this and it’s important – “I never apologised to you.”

“To me?” Bucky asks. He’s still petting Steve, which is both excellent and terrible, because Steve cannot for the life of him gather his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “It was – unkind. To do that, when I was in the Valkyrie.”

“Do what?” Bucky asks, apparently genuinely confused. Which is – upsetting, to Steve, even though that doesn’t quite make sense to himself.

“I –” he says, struggling to sit up. “No, let me – I asked you about yourself. And made you – share bits of your life with me. And I knew I was going to die, and –”

“Steve –”

“It wasn’t nice, is the thing,” Steve says, yielding to Bucky’s insistent hands and laying back down. “It wasn’t – you looked like shit, when I saw you. You said you barely ate.”

“I didn’t,” Bucky says, quiet.

“Well. I’m sorry,” Steve says again, obstinate.

“I – accept your apology,” Bucky murmurs, and pets Steve’s neck, his jaw, his cheeks. Then those fingers card through Steve’s hair, warm and alive and so very comforting. In moments, Steve can’t feel his body anymore; it’s as though all the sensation in his body has narrowed down to the places where Bucky’s touching him. “You did really good, okay? You’re fine.”

“Thanks,” Steve mutters, and Bucky shushes him again, unceremonious.

“Fucking sleep already,” he says, his tone much softer than his words. “I’ll be in the apartment when you wake up.” And, finally, between one soothing stroke and the next, Steve falls deep into warm dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When Steve wakes up, it is slightly warmer, a little sunnier, and he feels better-rested than he has in a while. He lets himself stretch luxuriously, and then turns over so he’s on his stomach and his face is buried in the pillow. This turns out to be an excellent choice, because the pillow smells a little like Bucky, and wearing Bucky’s clothes, in Bucky’s bed, and surrounded by the evidence of him is, really, unfairly pleasant.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there simply for the pleasure of it, but it feels delightfully lazy, and almost as good for his health as actual sleep. Eventually, though, his stomach starts complaining about the fact that he hasn’t eaten in around twenty four hours, and he yields, pushing himself upright and making his way into the kitchen.

“Well, hello there,” Bucky says from in front of the grill, when Steve leans against the doorway.

“Good morning. Afternoon?” Steve asks.

“It’s two o’clock,” Bucky confirms. “You sure five hours is enough sleep?”

“I need less than normal,” Steve says, shrugging it off and trying to pretend that it doesn’t feel nice to have sceptical eyes on him again. “Plus, I’d…say I had some pretty strong motivation to get up,” he adds, heart in his throat as though trying to choke him out of an attempt at flirting. Unfortunately for his heart, Steve is still just sleep-dumb enough to make a go of it, especially after the copious petting that’d taken place five hours ago.

“The food?” Bucky asks, in a tone that suggests he will be mightily disappointed if Steve answers in the positive.

“Well, maybe,” Steve admits. “You, though…” The serum has kept his heart rate ridiculously low through raids and runs and terrifying drives with Dum Dum at the wheel, and these are the words which make his pulse skyrocket.

“I can’t say I don’t want you here,” Bucky replies. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he adds, then, his tone dropping into something richer and deeper. If Steve’d had any more doubts, well, Bucky’s voice, just then, would’ve put them straight to rest.

“What’re the odds, hey?” he wonders out loud. That he’s not dead is a miracle of its own; that he’s met his wireless operator another, but that the aforementioned wireless operator is _Bucky_ , and Bucky is interested – well.

“Pal, if you’re wondering that, imagine how I feel,” Bucky says, half a smile on his face, and Steve has to laugh, because if he’d had to factor _celebrity_ into his odds with Bucky he’s pretty sure the numbers would implode out of the sheer unlikeliness of the entire situation. And yet, here they are. “Anyway,” Bucky says, passing over a plate heaped with bacon and eggs and bread. “You’d better eat something before you collapse again.”

“Again?” Steve asks, as he’s shooed out into the living room and tries to settle on the threadbare couch with his precariously balanced plate.

“I’m counting the fall into the Channel as a collapse,” Bucky says. “The collapse of good sense and judgement.”

“Hey,” Steve complains, but he can’t really protest, not when his plan had been to go down with the plane.

“You’re not eating, Rogers,” Bucky says then, as he deposits himself next to Steve with his own plate. The previously unaccommodating couch suddenly becomes a lot more pleasant, with Bucky there next to him.

“I was waiting,” Steve protested, “because it’s only good manners to eat together, not that you’d know anything about that –”

“You’re so full of shit,” Bucky says fondly, and raises a slice of toast to his mouth with large, exaggerated motions.

“Maybe,” Steve says, and those exaggerated motions lead Steve’s eyes down to Bucky’s plate, which has noticeably less food than Steve’s. “Are you – I mean, you’ve got less food than me –”

“I cooked extra today,” Bucky says with a shrug that is altogether too graceful. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But,” Steve starts, and doesn’t know how to protest. Doesn’t know where to begin his protest, even: the way this probably cost Bucky? The fact that this much food is unnecessary, because Steve can survive on normal portions for extended periods of time? The fact that this will probably leave Bucky lunch-less towards the end of the week, if he gives so much food to Steve now?

“I figured you’d be wanting more food, being a supersoldier and also having gone through a near-death experience,” Bucky says through another mouthful. “If you don’t finish it I can have the leftovers for dinner, or bring them to work. Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“I,” Steve says, absurdly touched all over again by this gesture. “You weren’t wrong,” he settles on saying, eventually. “Thanks.” He even manages to get through most of the food before he can no longer resist, and blurts out, “But just, y’know, for future reference, I can survive on normal rations for a while. A pretty long while, actually.”

“Yeah, so?” Bucky asks, which is such an unexpected response that Steve can only blink at him. “I can survive on two hours sleep a night for a while,” Bucky shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Oh,” Steve says. Somehow, he’s never thought of it like that.

“Jesus fuck, you’re terrible,” Bucky says, the grin on his face softening the words. “Take care of yourself better, for fuck’s sake.”

Steve feels as though he should offer a rebuttal to this, but since he can’t deny that he’s notoriously bad at taking care of himself there really isn’t much to say. Bucky rolls his eyes, like he knows exactly what Steve is thinking, which is more than possible. He has never been good at hiding his thoughts, so he goes back to eating, which is something he’s better at.

“I drafted a telegram,” Bucky says, voice soft, once Steve has finished his food and sat back, revelling in the feeling of a full stomach.

“A – oh,” Steve says. The realisation that he is going to have to leave Bucky is somehow surprising and unpleasant, even though he knew it was going to happen.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and there’s something mournful in his voice, something in the slump of his shoulders that makes Steve think he’s not the only one who doesn’t want him to leave. “Anyway, it, uh –” he breaks off, leans forward to grab a piece of paper off the table and pass it to Steve. “I couldn’t get much done with it, honestly. It just sounds patently fake, probably because it, y’know, kind of is, coming from me.”

The paper is indeed covered in broken off sentence and question marks that don’t indicate much confidence in its own message. _Captain America not dead_ the first line says, followed by a series of scribbles and then an _I am not dead, signed, S.Rogers_ , which was also found to be unsatisfactory, judging by the lines through it.

“I see what you mean,” Steve says, suppressing a smile as he tries to imagine sending his Howlies a telegram that only said _I am not dead_. They’d probably track down the sender to fight them, for that, whether or not it turned out to be true.

Writing a telegram to your friends and colleagues to tell them that you aren’t dead is a fairly difficult task, though, as Steve finds in the next hour of hm-ing and um-ing and pencil-chewing. He goes through almost as many pencils as he does pieces of paper before he finally settles on _Apologies to you all. Did not land the plane safely. Washed up on shore near Malborough. Awaiting orders._

“Did not land the plane safely,” Bucky mocks. “ _I’ll_ say.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. It’s hard to believe that it’s only been a handful of hours since the crash, and somehow he’s already joking about it. “I’d better –” Steve starts, and even to his own ears his reluctance is audible. “Get this sent off, I mean.”

“I’ll walk you to the Post Office, then,” Bucky says, standing and offering Steve a hand. Steve takes it, and doesn’t let go until the two of them have navigated their way outside the apartment and it becomes positively imprudent for him to keep holding.

“Hullo Mrs Cole, bye Mrs Cole,” Bucky says down in the foyer, timing the statement so that she hears it as he’s sweeping out the door, and only has time to call a quick, “You rascal!” out the door after him before it shuts between them.

“You rascal,” Steve mimics softly as they walk down the street, this time with a healthy amount of distance between them. Bucky flashes a grin up at him.

“I put my time in,” he insists. “Thursday lunches. You come to one of those and tell me you want to spend more time chatting about the weather with her.”

It’s a strangely nice thought, regular Thursday lunches. Although, to be fair, Steve is thinking mostly of regular Thursday lunches with Bucky and Bucky alone.

“There’s the post office,” Bucky nods, just a second later, at a small brick building with a P sticking out from its front.

“That was quick,” Steve says, unable to hide his surprise.

“We’re a small town,” Bucky says by way of explanation, holding the door. The bell attached to the top of it rings distinctly, but the woman behind the counter barely even looks up.

“Hullo, Bucky,” she says. The clock behind her ticks loudly.

“Hullo, Susan,” Bucky says. “I’ve got a friend who needs to send a telegram.”

“Don’t we all,” Susan says, standing up and holding her hand out. Steve passes the clean draft to her, which she reads, raises an eyebrow at, and reports a price for.

“Oh no,” Steve says, dismayed, as Bucky pays for him.

“Oh yes, punk,” Bucky says, as Susan counts out his change and hands it to him.   
“You can’t fight me on this, you don’t have British money.”

“I will find British money, and I will shove it down your pants,” Steve vows.

“Alright, I think we’re done here,” Bucky says. “Pleasure talking to you, Susan.”

“And you,” Susan says. Steve knows that he’s staring at her typing up his telegram as they leave, but he can’t help it – just a handful of hours ago he thought he’d never have to follow an order again, and now here he was, _awaiting orders_ , every inch the good little soldier.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Bucky says, as they turn back towards his flat.

“I just,” Steve says. “Obviously I’m, y’know, glad to be alive, but – I don’t love being Captain America. And just a few hours ago I thought I’d never have to be him again. ‘S a bit of a weird thing to think about, is all.”

“That’d explain the pinched look on your mug,” Bucky says, gently teasing. “I don’t have much to suggest for that particular problem, I’m afraid. You tried a good loud ‘fuck off’?”

“I plan to,” Steve says, unable to suppress a quick laugh. “After the war.”

“I’ll hold you to that, if you want,” Bucky says with a grin, and Steve dares to close the distance between them to nudge the other man.

“Sounds good,” he says. He’s about to suggest maybe heading back to the cove, or taking a scenic route back to the apartment building that is fast approaching, but Bucky scuppers those half-formed ideas by yawning, long and loud.

“Blech, sorry,” he says, as Steve stares, not quite sure what to say.

“No, fuck, shit, don’t apologise,” Steve starts to babble. “I – you haven’t slept yet, have you? And you’re on the night shifts –? When do you –?” And not only was Bucky on night shifts, Steve had wound him up pretty awfully this morning, and then made him walk half an hour instead of cycling ten minutes, and _then_ gone and taken his bed, to boot.

“Three to four,” Bucky says. Steve is fairly certain that the ‘to four’ was stuck on entirely for his benefit, which is sweet but achieves nothing.

“It’s nearly four now,” he says, dismayed, thinking of the clock in the post office.

“I mean, seriously, it’s not a big deal, especially not today,” Bucky says as Steve sweeps the two of them towards Bucky’s apartment. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, I don’t have to work. That means I can sleep in a bit,” he adds, when Steve’s rapid pace does not slow as they ascend the stairs to Bucky’s flat.

“Still,” Steve says. “Sleep schedules are important.”

“Oh yes,” Bucky says through another yawn. “You, the supersoldier who doesn’t need as much sleep as us mortals and who’s been out in the field to boot, naturally you’ve been keeping to a most excellent sleep schedule.”

“No, and that’s why I know how important they are,” Steve says sternly. This time he’s the one to bundle Bucky into his flat, who shows Bucky the bed and imperiously demands that he take it. Imperious demanding, in this case, taking the form of physical lifting and throwing.

“Alright, alright, no need to get your panties in a twist,” Bucky muttered. “You could’ve let me take my shoes off before tossing me into the mattress.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Steve asks, and goes to take Bucky’s shoes off now as reparation, ignoring Bucky’s indignant squawks.

“You’re a menace, Steve Rogers,” Bucky says, and rolls his eyes at the shit-eating grin he gets in response. “Let me up, I still need to brush my teeth and change. _Steve_.”

“Oh, all right,” Steve mutters, giving Bucky back his feet, if not his shoes.

“Just – make yourself at home. I’ll wake up at ten. That’s a fine amount of sleep,” he adds loudly, at Steve’s concerned look. “It’s what I’ve stuck to for nearly a year, and I feel fine.”

“Well, if you say so,” Steve says. Bucky throws him a dirty look and stomps off gently, so as not to disturb the floorboards.

~*~

Steve doesn’t doubt that Bucky would’ve woken up at ten pm if Steve hadn’t stolen and deactivated his alarm clock. When he does wake up it’s with a jolt that wakes Steve right up right alongside him, and Bucky’s soft swearing at the realisation that it’s eleven o’clock is so hilariously put-out that Steve has to start exaggerating his snores so as not to reveal that he’s awake. It probably has the opposite effect, since his snores have now taken on a tone of distinct self-satisfaction, and Bucky stabs Steve in the rib with an unfairly sharp elbow.

“Ow, fuck,” Steve mutters. “S’alright, you don’t haveta work today.”

“I shouldn’t’ve fuckin’ told you that,” Bucky mutters. Apparently anger is such a strong emotion that it enables Bucky to juggle absurd contractions bare minutes after waking up. “And hey, fuck you pal, I know for a fact I started off with four blankets and now I only have one.”

“I’m a blanket hog,” Steve admits, comfortable enough to feel no shame about the fact. “But I make up for it with cuddling.”

Bucky mutters something that’s probably uncomplimentary as he gets out of bed, and Steve yawns and sits up. The blankets he’d stolen are wrapped around him so tightly that they don’t budge from their position under his chin even as he pulls himself upright. “Are we getting up now?”

“Well, I don’t see why not,” Bucky says, making his way out of bed. “Neither of us are going back to sleep anytime soon.”

“Speak for yourself,” Steve mutters, but certainly at this point any more sleep is a luxury instead of a necessity and it’d probably be more trouble than it’s worth to try and fall back asleep. Still, nothing’s making him get up and potter around like Bucky’s doing. He’s perfectly content to sit here for a while.

“When did you decide to sleep?” Bucky asks, starting to change. Steve isn’t entirely sure that Bucky even knows what he’s doing, because his movements are soft and worn and habitual, but shame on him if he turns down a free show.

“Two hours ago? Three?” he says, enjoying Bucky’s smooth movements too much to be ashamed of himself for ogling. “I had a look ‘round town, but you were right, it really is small. And the flat was kinda boring without you.”

“Well, thanks,” Bucky says, tone teasing, and turns around, sadly now fully dressed, to start detangling Steve from his blankets.

“I meant you’re interesting, idiot,” Steve protests, and Bucky’s grin is a thing of beauty, bathed in moonlight.

“Even when I’m asleep?”

“Oh, especially then,” Steve assures him. “You were snoring in Morse.”

“I was doing no such thing,” Bucky says at once, and Steve has to grin at him.

“Maybe not, but there was definitely some Morse in your snore. I got S-I-S-G-F before I gave up,” he says, lying through his teeth, and Bucky narrows his eyes and tosses the newly-detangled blankets back into Steve’s face.

“Yeah? It probably stands for Steve Rogers Is So Goddamn Fuckity,” he snaps, tone belied by the corresponding grin on his face.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Steve points out, as dignified as he can be having just removed a pile of blankets from his face.

“Fucked, then,” Bucky says, and Steve has to allow that this is more accurate.

“Slightly more sense, maybe,” he says after a pause. “What are we doing now?”

“Who says we’re doing anything?” Bucky protests.

“Well, didn’t you get up and changed for something?” Steve points out. Bucky looks down with raised eyebrows and back up with a blush on his face.

“I,” he says. “Uh.”

“I enjoyed it very much,” Steve assures him, and gets the blankets thrown back in his face for his efforts.

“This is habit,” Bucky defends himself.

“Let’s go to the beach?” Steve asks.

“Well, how can I say no to those pretty eyes,” Bucky says, and for all that his tone is light sincerity soaks through every word. And for all that his tone is light, Steve still blushes at him for saying it.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to get up and ready, and in a matter of minutes he’s standing by the door waiting for Bucky to join him. The decision to walk back down to the cove is a wordless one, and Steve can’t help but thrill at the realisation; can’t help, either, but to thrill at the way that he and Bucky reach for each other as soon as the dark shapes of Malborough’s looming houses are comfortably out of sight.

There’s a strange, otherworldly sort of beauty to a landscape when it’s illuminated solely by moonlight. The grass is pale and colourless and the sea seems like it’s glowing, but it’s all wasted on Steve, because his gaze is constantly drawn back to his companion – the moonlight that glances off his skin, the lightness in his eyes. His graceful movements. Bucky turns his head to meet Steve’s gaze, raises an eyebrow. Steve raises one right back, and has to smile as Bucky laughs.

“I’m kinda jealous, you know,” Bucky starts. “I think the flat likes you. It took months to stop squeaking the floorboards when I was trying to get ready for work in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, please,” Steve scoffs. “The flat’s likes and dislikes has nothing to do with it,” he says, and this starts off the conversational argument (or argumentative conversation) that ends up spanning a variety of topics before they get down to the beach, where Bucky cuts off their current topic with a relieved sigh as he plops down onto the sand and stretches out his legs.

“Sorry for dragging you all the way out here,” Steve says, sitting down as well.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Bucky says. “I like it here too, y’know. It’s a nice view.”

“That it is,” Steve says as the waves crash a little bit louder, as if in agreement themselves. The beach is, upon further examination, decidedly empty, so he deems it safe to wrap an arm around Bucky’s waist. “C’mon, lean on me, there you go.”

“Hmph,” Bucky mutters, but he doesn’t struggle, only leans in closer. “It’s prettier when I have someone to watch it with,” he says, and it takes Steve a minute to realise that he’s gone back to talking about the view.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a line, Mr Barnes,” Steve says.

“I’m pretty sure you’re right, Mr Rogers,” Bucky agrees, his smile audible.

The two of them sit in silence for several long minutes, as the moon shines weakly and the sea keeps moving, and it’s – so nice, to know that this is something they can do as well. They can talk incessantly about everything and argue for ages about nothing, but they can also coexist without a word spoken between them.

“Here,” Steve is the one to break the silence, when he feels Bucky slump even more heavily against his shoulder. “Here, Buck, c’mon, just – yeah, there. Better?”

Bucky blinks up at him with blue eyes from his new position cushioned on Steve’s thighs, and something in terrifyingly close proximity to Steve’s heart tugs, like it’s hooked on something that’s just now starting to reel in.

“Yeah. Better,” Bucky agrees, and closes his eyes and fucking _purrs_ as Steve returns the favour - from just that morning, which is a strange realisation; he feels as though he’s known Bucky far longer than that – and buries his hands in soft dark hair. Bucky shifts slightly, rearranges himself in languid slow movements that are graceful and lovely to watch until they reach Bucky’s head, which clunks against something solid and heavy. “Ow. What the –? Fuck –?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve says, sheepish, pushing at Bucky until the other man is at a safe distance. “Water bottle.”

“Well you coulda told me that before I clunked my head on it,” Bucky tries to grumble, the effort ruined by the smile that breaks out on his face when Steve pointedly cards his hands through Bucky’s hair. “God damn, do you always carry a bottle around in your pocket? I’d ask if you were glad to see me, but apparently _it’s_ not.”

“Jesus, you don’t have to blame the bottle for everything,” Steve says. “It can do some pretty great things, y’know, like carry water around for you. Want some?”

Bucky hasn’t even opened his mouth to reply when another, unexpected voice rings out from behind Steve, “I – aw, fuck, sand, no,” it says, startlingly unpleasantly close when Steve prides himself on his situational awareness. Steve at least has the presence of mind to keep a hand between Bucky’s head and the water bottle when he whips around to see the man behind them.

He appears to have tripped over nothing at all, and sounds distinctly country-American and out of place here. He’s wearing an intensely strange purple suit get-up. And this would be strange enough, Steve thinks, without the bow and arrow slung over his back, which elevates the entire image from strange to truly baffling. 

“Who’re you?” Steve asks, possibly a little too shortly for someone who’s been, essentially, caught in a rather compromising position, but maybe just rudely enough considering the man is now attempting to dust himself off, with very little success. Whatever his suit is made of, the sand appears to like it.

Bucky hasn’t made a peep in all this time, and when Steve looks down at the other man he realises with belated surprise that it’s because Bucky has fallen _asleep_. Which is inconvenient timing, but possibly a decent excuse for why he’s leaning so heavily on Steve.

“Clint Barton, at your service,” the newcomer – Clint Barton – says, sticking out one sandy hand to shake. He doesn’t even appear to look at Bucky, which is reassuring enough for Steve to take the hand and let it be shaken around a bit.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve says, bemused.

“Alright, brass tacks,” Barton says, so exceedingly loud that Steve doesn’t feel any shame at shushing him fiercely.

“You’ll wake –” he starts, but Barton shakes his head.

“Nope,” the other man says, “he can’t wake up.”

“Can’t wake up!” Steve repeats disbelievingly, and indeed, upon being shaken Bucky doesn’t react at all. “Buck –”

“We’re talking in space, not time,” Barton says, like that means _anything at all_.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Steve says in a half-shout that’s not loud enough to cover up his fear.

“Look at the sea,” Barton says. For a few moments Steve simply narrows his eyes, not quite sure what will happen if he looks away from Barton, but when his suspicious gaze is merely met with wide guileless eyes he reaffirms his grip on Bucky’s shoulders and turns his head – to the sea, which is, in fact, motionless. “It hasn’t moved since I tripped,” Barton says. “And it won’t move – nothing else will move – until we finish talking.”

“So finish talking,” Steve snaps out, and this time he thinks he’s entirely justified in his shortness of tone.

“Ah,” Barton says, abruptly looking intensely uneasy. “Well. Here’s the thing. We were supposed to meet yesterday,” he says, and then adds, “at 7.42,” like that will clarify anything at all.

“That’s ridiculous,” Steve says. “My orders haven’t come in yet.”

There’s a short pause, and then, “No,” Barton says, “I meant in the morning.” His forehead is slightly shiny. 

“That’s even more ridiculous,” Steve says, after an uncomfortably long pause of his own as he tries to rationalise this and gives up. “I was in a plane this morning. Yesterday morning,” he amends.

“Yeah,” Barton says, “and what kind of person can survive a plane crash into the Channel?”

“How d’you –” Steve starts to ask, and then reconsiders, because it is probably in the newspapers, or at least in the grapevine. “…One with a super-serum,” he answers instead, slow. He thinks he is starting to understand what Barton is getting at.

“Your time was up,” Barton says, nodding like he knows what Steve is thinking. “I was meant to catch you, but –”

“But?”

“I missed,” Barton says sheepish and defensive all at once. “And why shouldn’t I? The fog, and the crash, and deep water – I couldn’t catch you, and then I was called away for another assignment. England has the most ridiculous weather,” he finishes with a huff. “I’m from Nevada.”

“Well – well, what do you want now,” Steve makes it a point to say instead of ask, tone flat and uninviting.

“You,” Barton says, and Steve at least has to give him credit for not mincing his words, for keeping his gaze open and frank. “To conduct you.”

“Where to?”

“The training centre.”

“Training for what?”

“For another world,” Barton says, soft.

Steve blinks, and stares for so long that his eyes start to water, or maybe that’s just him not wanting to leave. A hysterical sort of laugh bubbles up his throat, and he swallows it back down, traps the remainder behind clenched teeth.

“Well, what if I don’t want – what if I refuse to come with you?” he asks, once he’s fairly sure he has control over his voice.

“Well, you can’t,” Barton says, like it’s that easy. Like it’s already fact, and that makes Steve want to – throw something, hit something. Barton himself, preferably. “Your time was up. You got to live about twenty extra hours thanks to my mistake, but now you have to start your training –”

“I don’t want to start my training,” Steve says, and even to his own ears he sounds petulant, so he changes the subject. Because that’s always worked for him. “What about Bucky?”

“Well, what about him? You’ll see him when his time comes,” Barton says. “If it’s any consolation, I looked him up. He’ll live to be ninety-seven.”

“Good,” Steve mutters, and blushes a little at Barton’s raised eyebrow. “I like him.”

“Like him?” Barton asks, and for the first time he acknowledges the position he’s found Steve in, nods at the way Bucky is slumped, boneless and utterly trusting, between Steve’s legs.

“Yeah, I like him. Is that something you’re going to _train_ out of me?” Steve snaps, and Barton puts his hands up.

“Woah, no, that’s fine, that’s not a big deal –” he says, which might have been a mistake on his part because Steve’s mind promptly goes into overdrive in an attempt to use this in his favour.

“Well, I – I do, I like him,” Steve says. “We could – we might become something. I hope we’re going to be something. And that’s on you, and I don’t want to leave him, I want to stay with him. I want to see what we can become.”

“Come on, man,” Barton says, rubbing his face and then swearing when the sand on his hand scrapes at his skin. “How many people do you think we have to train while they’re in love? They might protest, but they still have to pass on –”

“Yeah, but I have a right to protest,” Steve retorts, heart thumping in his ribs.

“Oh?” Barton asks, tone dry, as Steve barrels ahead.

“Listen, I – we have all this potential because of your mistake,” Steve says, somehow keeping the hopeful breathlessness out of his voice. “If you’d grabbed me when you should have, I’d never have met him. I was ready to die, then, I – I expected to die! It’s not my fault I didn’t!”

“No,” Barton agrees.

“Isn’t there a – I don’t know, a court?” Steve asks. “A place I can appeal?”

“Oh – oh. Hm,” Barton says. “It’s never been done before. It never – hm.” He picks up one of his arrows, sights it. “Is there really no chance of you not getting me into a mess with the higher-ups?” he asks, plaintive.

“Sorry,” Steve says, and he is apologetic, but at the same time he’s fairly sure that his life and Bucky are both more important than Barton’s standing in the eyes of his training-centre higher-ups.

“Fair enough,” Barton says, and crams the arrow back in its quiver in a way that Steve suspects is very conducive to damage. “I’ll. Get back to you, I guess.”

“I guess,” Steve says, and he thinks it’s fair enough on his part if he sounds a little unenthusiastic at the prospect. “See you then.”

Barton pops out of sight, and the only proof that he’d ever been sitting in front of Steve is the inward curve of sand, the indent of a body that Steve is currently staring at.

The sea crashes against the stone shores, and Steve jumps at the noise.

“Mm, no thanks,” Bucky says, and Steve almost sobs at the sound of his voice.

“Oh my God, _Bucky_ ,” he can’t quite help but choke out.

“That’s me,” Bucky says, but for all that his tone is flippant and light, he’s already sitting up, already reaching out for Steve, based on nothing more than a few words. “Steve, what’s wrong?”

“I saw – someone – appeared, I don’t know how to describe it – didn’t you hear us? While you were sleeping?” Steve asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth rushed and frantic.

“I haven’t been asleep,” Bucky says, slow. “Steve, are you okay?”

“You – you just – did you not –” Steve sputters out, but it’s useless, he already knows it is. It makes him either magical or mad, but Clint Barton, clumsy Nevada-born angel, had only appeared to Steve.

“What happened?” Bucky asks, quiet. His face has gone utterly serious, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Steve think that he’ll be believed. Or, possibly, Steve is projecting his own desires onto the other man, but the thought of not telling Bucky the truth barely even crosses his mind before the words start to come out. He’s barely aware of what he’s saying or how he’s saying it, everything in him too focused on Bucky, on Bucky’s beautiful expressive face and gestures and reactions.

Bucky, who miraculously doesn’t frown, doesn’t lean away, doesn’t so much as widen his eyes when he has more than enough reason to do all of that and more. Bucky, who only holds Steve’s gaze, steady and solid, until his words have slowed down and started making sense.

“He said I could appeal –” Steve tries to finish, but interrupts himself with a laugh, and even to his own ears it’s a sad broken thing. “Bucky, I think I’m going crazy.”

Bucky moves forward, close and then closer. “We’ll figure it out,” he says.

“You don’t –” Steve starts, and stops, and struggles. “You –”

“Hey,” Bucky says firmly, putting a hand on Steve’s jaw, using it to angle his face so Steve can’t avoid his gaze. “I’m not leaving.” And trust Bucky to get right deep down into the heart of Steve’s fear, trust him to tug once and have Steve’s tangled ball of emotions unravel and go soft for him. “Shit happens,” Bucky says, easy despite everything, and uses his free hand to rub up and down Steve’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Trust me.”

“I do. I do,” Steve says on a sigh. He doesn’t try to resist the gentle pressure on his jaw and, in a moment, finds himself with his face buried in Bucky’s shoulder, inhaling against the other man’s pulse point. From here, the world is darker and softer and quieter. From here, Steve can take deep breaths and regather his wits.


	3. Chapter 3

The walk back to Bucky’s apartment is conducted in silence, with Steve pretending to ignore the worried glances that Bucky is, to his credit, quite restrained with.

“Do you believe me?” Steve asks, as Bucky closes the door behind him. Not necessarily because he wants to hear a particular answer – he thinks he’d accept any answer Bucky chooses to give – but because he wants to hear _an_ answer, even one that casts doubt on his own sanity.

“I –” Bucky says, and sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t –” He sighs again, frustration clear. “You have to understand, it’s –”

“Such a strange thing,” Steve finishes. “I know. I don’t know if I believe myself.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bucky says, firm, and nods once, decidedly, in response to Steve’s wide eyes. “Think about it. It’s either real or a particularly vivid not-real vision. If it’s real, and you win, you get to stay here. And if it’s not – why would your brain come up with something like that?”

It doesn’t appear to be a rhetorical question, and as much as Steve wants to reply with something flippant and self-deprecating Bucky is watching him with serious eyes. “Because,” he starts, and stops again, utterly at a loss. What does it come down to, in the end? Life instead of death. A claim and a right and love. “To prove – I should live. That it wasn’t – that I shouldn’t have died.”

“That’s what I thought,” Bucky says. His smile is gentle, when he steps forward to take Steve’s hands in his own. “And if it’s real and you win, you get to stay. And if it’s a vision and you win, you – beat your own coping mechanism, I guess. Either way, it’s a good thing for you, right?”

Steve twists his wrists, let his hands intertwine with Bucky’s instead of being passively held. “I was right,” he says simply, and waits for the little twist of confusion that swirls across Bucky’s face. “To get you,” he elaborates, and is daring enough to press a kiss to Bucky’s hand. “I told you I was lucky, but even then I didn’t know how much.”

“I’d like to think that’s not true,” Bucky says, but Steve very much doubts that any other stranger would be taking this half so well, and volunteering to help, to boot. “The messenger guy,” Bucky says. “He says he’d be back?”

“Yes, and soon, hopefully,” Steve says. He doesn’t realise that his face has creased into a slight frown until Bucky reaches up to press a fingertip against the wrinkles. “I’d like to get it over with while I’m still here,” Steve confesses. “I don’t – I don’t want to do this without you.” He doesn’t want to do a lot of things without Bucky, he finds, but this most of all.

“How long until you get your marching orders, do you think?” Bucky asks. His grip on Steve tightens as he asks the question, almost imperceptible.

“Worst case scenario, a telegram arrives tomorrow – this morning – to tell me where to go,” Steve says. “Wait – no, post doesn’t go on Sundays, does it?”

“No,” Bucky says. “But they might get something through to RAF Bolthead. Depends on how urgent they feel, I guess.”

“Could I pretend to not get it?” Steve asks, only and it’s only half a joke.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, considering. His head tilts to one side as he thinks it over, and it’s quite possibly the most endearing thing Steve has ever seen. “I mean, I found you after I signed out, so they don’t actually know you’re here, they wouldn’t know how to get a telegram to you if they got one. They might send someone into town to ask around – I don’t know how that’d turn out –”

“I said I’d been washed up,” Steve remembers. “In the telegram. And it was sent from an actual post office, so they’ll probably know I haven’t made contact with a base.”

“That probably buys us a day, then,” Bucky says. “Telegram could come through on Monday morning.”

“I might be able to put off going for a day after that,” Steve summarises. “And the best case scenario, I guess, is that they don’t trust the telegram and don’t want to send an address. Then they’ll probably send someone like Peggy – my second in command –”

“I’ve heard of Agent Carter, Steve,” Bucky says, complete with amused smile.

“Yeah, well,” Steve mutters. It’s a little astonishing, how at ease Bucky makes him feel. How easy it is to forget that he and his team are famous, with him. “That’ll probably give us a few more days to sort this out. Hey,” he says, pulling back, “can I ask you to join my team? Is that –?”

“What, sweep me off my feet?” Bucky asks. Steve shrugs.

“You said it, not me.”

“Punk,” Bucky says on an amused exhale. “I mean, you can probably wrangle it,” he concludes after a few moments of contemplation. “If your brass don’t mind that I got taken off field duty –”

“For a broken arm? I don’t think they’d mind,” Steve promises. “If that really was all it was. Why didn’t they put you back on duty after that?”

“It was a very impressive broken arm,” Bucky says, and insists, “No, really,” when Steve can’t help but laugh. “Shut up, Steve, I broke it in six places. It was a long recovery and the damn thing’s still a bit weird sometimes.”

“ _Six places_ ,” Steve echoes, unsure whether to laugh or not at this, and eventually letting the mixed emotions out in an undignified kind of snorting. “Holy shit. What the fuck did you do to it?”

“A wall kind of fell on it,” Bucky says. “And the rest of that mission went so incredibly pear-shaped that they let me stay out of field duty after it.”

“Jesus, six places,” Steve repeats. “If the rest of the mission was that disastrous I’m honestly kind of surprised that you’re alive.” This is an incredibly insensitive thing to say, but Bucky laughs, so the gamble pays off.

“Me too, pal,” Bucky says. “Me the fuck too.”

“That – do you want to stay out, though?” Steve asks, serious again. “I don’t want you to come back into the field just for me, Buck. You’ve got a good job here. A nice place.”

“Now I know you’re bullshitting me,” Bucky says, casting a significant glance around his damp and tiny flat.

“It’s really not that bad,” Steve says. “It’s like the tenement buildings back home.”

“Oh, well, if it’s like the _tenement_ buildings,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes, and Steve has to concede the point. “Really,” Bucky says, growing serious again, “I’ll think about it, okay? We can both think about it, while we wait for the post office to open.”

_There’s not much for me to think about_ , Steve wants to say, selfish and wanting. Instead he dips his head in a nod, squeezes Bucky’s hand, and when Bucky offers to take him up to the roof in a few hours to watch the sunrise he accepts the offer without hesitating.

Now more than ever, Steve is viscerally, viciously aware that this is a sunrise he’s not meant to be seeing. He’s not entirely sure how that should make him feel. He’s not sure that he feels anything, at the sight. Bucky is a tense line next to him trying not to be tense and mostly failing; Steve can practically hear the words the other man wants to say: This sunrise isn’t special, Steve’ll see other ones, better ones, don’t be so sad. But he keeps his mouth closed and leans against Steve instead, heavy and solid and present.

Of, course, that’s when everything stills, and Bucky slumps even more heavily against Steve’s side. Steve tightens his arm immediately, automatically, and when he turns around he’s not terribly surprised to see Barton there, fiddling uncomfortably with an arrow.

It’s ironic, he has to admit, that he’d been thinking of the sunrise as a tableau; it might have been subtle but it’d been a scene, alive and moving, complete with drifting clouds and the sounds of birds and gently shifting grass. This, now, when everything is frozen, this is a tableau.

“What?” Steve asks.

“You could at least sound pleased to see me,” Clint says. “Seeing as you got me into a bunch of shit with the higher-ups, and all that.”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not, really,” Steve says, and as he turns around he keeps a gentle arm around a limp and unconscious Bucky.

“I guess you wouldn’t be,” Barton says, with a glance at Bucky that Steve’s not quite able to parse. He looks as wildly outrageous as he had the last time Steve had seen him, bow and quiver slung over his back and jumpsuit an even deeper shade of purple than last time, which Steve hadn’t realised was possible. “But I don’t think you realise what you’re rejecting, Steve. Your mother’s up there. She’d like to see you.”

“So you have good news for me,” Steve says, ignoring the pang in his heart at the thought of seeing his mother again. He’d made his peace with her and her death while she was in the TB ward. He hasn’t – made his peace with his own death. Barton raises his eyebrows, and Steve specifies. “You wouldn’t be trying to tempt me with my mother if you could tell me that I have to follow you.”

“That’s true,” Barton says, tilting his head forward, and then he laughs. “I know you’ve no reason to believe me, but I was told to say that one,” he says. “Subterfuge isn’t really my thing.” Which – looking at him, Steve can believe that, if not the first statement.

“So?” he asks, trying to keep his face impassive. He can’t quite help the way that his toes curl a little in his shoes, though, anticipatory and anxious all at once.

“You can appeal to the High Court,” Barton says, and for all his resolution to stay neutral and impassive in the face of a probably-hostile opponent Steve can’t help but to slump with relief. “The trial is in three days, for you to prepare your case.”

“Three days!” Steve exclaims, mind already racing. Three days is – a terribly short time. But three days, in being short, is easier to buy. He can buy three days. Or, more precisely, he can beg, borrow, and steal three days, probably, if he has to

“Don’t be too pleased,” Barton says. “Up on high they’re searching through the best of the best to prosecute your case. When I left they were quizzing Lincoln.” Somehow, despite the inherent negativity of the words, Barton manages to say them in a way that causes him to come across as merely a sympathetic party. He’s either very good at pretence, or he truly is this earnest.

“Lincoln –!” Steve can only sputter, once the meaning of the name sinks in. “Like – like _Abraham_ Lincoln?” Barton nods, and Steve can only swallow. “Well – well, do I get a lawyer?” he manages.

“Oh, yeah,” Barton says. “You can pick anyone who’s dead to be your defending counsel. But you’d better pick someone quickly, because up on high isn’t below cheating a little and stretching time so their prosecutor can build a better case.”

“Fuck,” Steve mutters.

“They can’t do it too much,” Barton reassures. “We have a bigger population than you guys down here, especially recently, and everyone complains when time gets thrown out of whack.” He wiggles a hand. “It feels weird.”

“I guess that’s a relief,” Steve says dryly, because Barton looks like he’s expecting some of response and Steve is not steady enough to properly do words. He feels like he’s about to topple to one side, as overwhelmed as he is, like every new fact is more weight on his shoulders bearing downwards. “I, uh, I can’t pick someone who’s alive?” he asks, even though he doesn’t know any lawyers, because he thinks Peggy would do a fairly fantastic job in a court of law. But then, he has full faith that Peggy would do a fairly fantastic job anywhere, really.

“No, because the afterlife is meant to be a secret and we’re already bending the rules a lot by having you knowing about its existence,” Barton says. “Or that’s what they’re saying, anyway.”

“I can’t appeal against that one?” Steve asks, and Barton shakes his head and then stops, shrugs.

“I mean, you _could_ , but it’ll definitely take longer than three days, so it wouldn’t affect your trial anyway. You’d be better off just going ahead and picking someone quick to keep up,” Barton says, in what appears to be an attempt to be helpful. “I was told to offer you Francis Galton, but, uh –”

“He’s that eugenicist!” Steve exclaims, half-baked thoughts of appeals pushed out of his mind in favour of thorough indignation at this trick. He cannot count the number of times brochures with that name have been brandished at him by bold neighbours, or left quietly in his mailbox by the more timid ones. “I’m a walking –” he starts, and then stops, because he’d been about to say _nightmare to them_ but he isn’t, anymore, is he?

“Oh, he still hates you a lot,” Barton assures Steve. “He thinks you cheated at evolution. So maybe don’t pick him. Or any of the more traditional Darwinists, really.”

“Thanks,” Steve mutters sourly, although even he’s not quite sure whether it is directed at Barton or Galton.

“You could pick Socrates,” Barton says, with every appearance of trying to be helpful. “Or Cicero. He’d probably enjoy the challenge. Madame Du Barry told me to tell you that she knows all about love.”

“But I don’t know them,” Steve says, and it comes out more plaintive than anything. “Can’t I meet them or something, first?”

The way Barton’s face grows graver at the question is enough to tell Steve everything he needs to know, but the other man still says, “I don’t think so. You’re not allowed to come up if you’re not dying, and they’re not allowed to come down unless they’re soul-catchers.”

“Fuck,” Steve mutters. “Well – well, how am I supposed to tell you my choice? If I want some time to think it over?”

“I’ll pop back in from time to time,” Barton says. “I’ve been taken off active duty,” he pauses to give a significant glance to Steve, who only tightens his grip around Bucky’s slumped shoulders, “so there’s not much chance of me missing you. Just, I don’t know, call my name or something. I’ll probably catch it. Clint Barton.”

“Clint Barton, I remember,” Steve says, at almost the same time. “I – thanks.” Barton nods, does a bizarre thing with his eye that is probably a wink, and disappears.

~*~

**72hrs remaining**  
For one terrifying moment after Clint disappears the tableau in front of Steve stretches on, or so it seems, and Steve’s mind starts to blank out with panic at the thought of being left like this, alone in stretched-out time. When Bucky shifts Steve nearly staggers with the relief of it.

“I – what? What?” Bucky asks, because for him it’s been the space of a blink and he’s been turned around and the person he’s leaning on has grown exponentially more unsteady. “Did it happen again?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, absurdly and infinitely grateful that Bucky is so fast, that Steve doesn’t have to stumble through another awkward and patently absurd-sounding explanation.

“And?” Bucky asks, and his reciprocal grip on Steve’s waist is warm and tight and comforting. Now it’s Steve’s turn to be leaning on Bucky, and he finds that he quite likes it. “You didn’t give into anything, did you?”

“No,” Steve says, and then repeats himself, “No,” firmer this time, more for his own benefit than Bucky’s. He _hadn’t_ given in to anything. He’d fought. He was fighting them. That was important.

“Good. That’s the spirit,” Bucky says, turning the two of them around so that they’re facing the sunrise again. The view makes Steve take a breath almost at once, deep and cleansing. But then, it’s not surprising that a sunrise would make him feel like breathing again, when the thing he’d just been staring at had been a damp door with numerous stains. “What else?” Bucky asks.

“I’m allowed to appeal,” Steve says first, because that is probably the most important thing. Bucky’s grip tightens as he makes a small victorious hissing noise. “Um, the High Court is going to appoint a prosecutor. And I’m allowed a defending counsel from anyone dead. But I can’t meet them before the trial because I’m not allowed up and they’re not allowed down.”

“What?” Bucky asks, his frown audible in his voice. “That seems like bullshit.”

“Well, Barton said the High Court wanted to win. And he made a few hints that, well – they’re not above playing dirty to, y’know, achieve that,” Steve says. “I’m not allowed to pick someone alive to be my lawyer, because the afterlife is meant to be a secret, or something like that. So that – I mean, that already puts me at a disadvantage. I don’t know any dead lawyers.”

“They sound like assholes,” Bucky mutters, which is gratifying enough that it startles a laugh out of Steve.

“That’s – that’s fair, really,” he says, and if he’s clutching the thin metal railing of the roof a little too forcefully Bucky’s kind enough not to comment on it, just watches him with soft concerned eyes in the sunrise. Steve wants to kiss him, a natural culmination to the flirting they’ve been doing, but, well, he’s due to present in court in three days, apparently, and there’s a solid to good chance that he won’t come back; it’d be patently unfair to string Bucky along, knowing that.

“Come back downstairs,” Bucky says, gently prying Steve’s grip off the now-warped rail.

“Shit,” Steve mutters, looking at the finger-shaped dents.

“It’s fine, you’re fine,” Bucky says. “C’mon.”

Behind thin doors and thinner walls, the world is starting to wake up, people talking in sleepy tones as they get ready to start their day. It makes Steve want to press closer to Bucky, to find an approximation of domesticity, for all that they can’t be caught doing that.

“I don’t suppose,” Steve says as they make their way back into Bucky’s flat, “you knew any lawyers who happen to be dead, now?”

“This is the first time I’ve ever wished that,” Bucky says, heading into the kitchen while Steve flops down on the couch, “but no. I’m sorry –”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t be,” Steve says. “Why the fuck would you go around making the acquaintance of soon-to-be-dead lawyers? None of this is on you.”

“No, but I’m still sorry,” Bucky says. “My mom was a secretary for a lawyer for a bit, but as far as I know she doesn’t know anything about law and she’s still alive. As of –” he steps backwards briefly to pick up a letter from his kitchen table, flips it over, “last week, anyway.”

“My mom’s not, but she was a nurse,” Steve says, studying the ceiling intently in an attempt to stop thinking about Barton’s _your mother’s up there. She’d like to see you_. It was manipulative as all hell, and not even subtle, but still – “Maybe pure motherly instinct could win her the trial.” If that strategy was going to work with anyone it was probably going to be Sarah Rogers, she who had managed to keep Steve alive when he was at his smallest and sickest and scrappiest.

“Not a great strategy, but worth keeping in mind,” Bucky says. “Do you want any tea? The girls down at the station converted me. I still have coffee, though, if you want.”

“Nah,” Steve decides, after only a moment of contemplation. Monty and Peggy had both extolled the virtues of the tea-leaf endlessly while they were in the field, but any time they got their hands on a supply they positively refused to share, citing national urgency. “Convince me.”

“Oh, so now I’m under pressure,” Bucky grumbles as he dumps tea leaves into a kettle, movements careless and well-practiced and terribly appealing to watch.

Steve tries to return his attentions to the ceiling – he’s positive that if he just tilts his head to the left a little more, that shapeless blob will start to look more like a dog – but, somehow, ends up turning his gaze towards Bucky, like always. Nothing he’s doing is even particularly remarkable, Steve can acknowledge on an objective level, but on the subjective one Steve can’t help but be captivated.

“I just,” he says, and sighs when Bucky looks over at him. “I could ask for anyone, someone like, I don’t know, Plato, but I don’t _know_ Plato. Maybe he’s a shithead. Maybe he thinks the whole world is better off dead and that he’d be doing me a favour if he lost the trial. Fuck, maybe he was into eugenics too, I don’t fuckin’ know –” he breaks off with a frustrated sigh, tries to return his gaze to the ceiling.

“We should go research it,” Bucky says, firm, as he brings two steaming mugs over.

“Everything’s shut on Sundays,” Steve points out as Bucky hands him his tea. Their hands touch – just briefly, but it gets Steve to take a breath, to straighten and take strength from the gentle contact.

“The lady who used to live in the flat left some books here,” Bucky says. “It’s a starting point.”

“Sure,” Steve says, and has to groan slightly when Bucky sets down one of a pair of boxes in his lap, harder than is strictly necessary. “Think any of these’ll help?”

“Haven’t you looked at them?” Steve asks, bemused, but obediently opens a box and takes one of the small paperbacks out.

“You’d think so,” Bucky says, taking a seat again, “but no. I didn’t want her to come back and realise I’d been through her books.”

“But now you don’t care?” Steve asks.

“Not when it’s for you,” Bucky says, soft and serious and completely ignoring Steve’s attempt for levity. Steve sways forward, at that – how could he not? – and only manages to pull himself back at the last moment, ignoring the twinge in his heart when Bucky frowns, just slightly, at him.

“Well,” he says. “I’m not sure how much Agatha Christie could help me, at any rate.” All six of the books facing upwards in the box on Steve’s lap are by Agatha Christie, who is, judging by her books, of sound mind and sharp reason, but also probably still alive, and thus not at all helpful to Steve at this present moment.

“There must be a history book of some kind,” Bucky says, when there really doesn’t have to be anything of the sort. “Even historical fiction might help us, really…” He makes a lovely picture, digging through a box of books, and only grows absurdly illogically lovelier to Steve when he sneezes at the dust his rough movements raise.

“Oh, and we’ve got Arthur Conan Doyle,” Steve observes, upon uncovering the next layer of his own box. Apparently the previous tenant had had quite the taste for crime fiction.

“He died in a few years back, didn’t he?” Bucky asks, straightening. “D’you think –”

“He had to’ve been smart to write Sherlock,” Steve admits. “But I still don’t know him. He might hate me.”

“Why on Earth would he hate you?” Bucky asks.

“Francis Galton hates me,” Steve says. “He thinks I cheated at evolution.”

“I mean, you did, but that’s no reason to hate you,” Bucky grumbles. “But okay, I see your point.”

“And it’s not just the serum,” Steve says. “There’s – a lot, in my life, that someone might be able to find issue with. How am I supposed to know how someone like Conan Doyle might look at me?”

“Not through crime fiction, for sure,” Bucky says, glaring at his box. Steve could swear that the cardboard wilts, faced with Bucky’s disappointment. Or maybe that’s just Steve. At that point, probably to avoid the same fate, Steve’s box yields up something that could be of use: _Crime Fiction Writers of the 19th Century_. It’s no history book, but it does get Bucky to brighten, to come over and shove himself next to Steve and start poring through the pages as though they might give him some information Steve could use.

“Do we really think that a book about crime fiction writers in the 19th century is going to help us?” Steve asks, but he doesn’t protest when Bucky hushes him; lets the other man manhandle the two of them into a somewhat comfortable position curled into each other, and lets himself lean on Bucky as their eyes skip over the words on the pages in front of them. He doesn’t pull away from Bucky, even though he should. Even though it would be better for them both, he thinks. He very much doubts that he is going to find a suitable defence counsel in three days without being able to even meet them.

[](https://imgur.com/qfddCE6)

As he’d expected, the book does not talk much about the authors and their attitudes towards death, or gay relationships, or being stuck into a cubicle and blasted with vitamin rays. This is not strictly the book’s fault, but Steve can feel the disappointed slump of Bucky’s body anyway.

“I can’t go through another book in that series,” Steve says hastily, when Bucky digs out a matching _Crime Fiction Writers of the 18th Century_. The 19th century had been dry enough. “I can’t. I’m going to try and make a list of people who might defend me.”

“Good luck,” Bucky says, his smile a slightly strained thing, after pointing out pens and paper held under a tiny ramshackle table. Steve stares down at the blank expanse of paper on his lap and tries to convince himself that it’s not terrifyingly intimidating. He fails; the paper is far too blank and mocking to not be intimidating. He folds the paper in half to make this job easier, and determinedly writes down the names of his mother and father, making sure to note in the margins that they have no experience with law.

He stops looking up at the clock on the wall, because the progress he makes is frankly glacial and marking the passage of time becomes depressing after the sixth glance. Instead he times himself by watching Bucky read; he’s at the very beginning of the book, he’s a little way through it, he’s about a quarter of the way through it. Steve is up to four names at this point. Astonishingly, being ill half the time and trying to put himself through art school the other half has not been conducive to making the acquaintance of lawyers or wise old people.

Once he’s reached the halfway mark Bucky stretches his leg out, wiggles his foot in an unsatisfied movement. Steve seizes this opportunity to procrastinate with both hands, and relocates so that Bucky’s feet are on his lap. When Bucky opens his mouth, Steve unashamedly plays dirty by digging his thumb into the arch of Bucky’s foot. As he’d hoped, this has the effect of utterly distracting Bucky; Steve hadn’t dared to hope for any specific effect past that, so the way Bucky relaxes into the couch, the way his head falls back, languid and sensual, is a bonus that Steve immediately wants to see again.

“You have magic fingers,” Bucky murmurs, and suddenly the distance between his feet and his head is unbearably far. Steve wants to kiss him, for all that he doesn’t think he should. “Don’t be wasting time on me, though,” he says, lazy despite his own words, eyes half-lidded.

“S’not wasting when it’s you,” Steve says, comfortable and very much enjoying the blush that comes over Bucky’s cheeks at the words.

“Oh, go on, you,” Bucky says, kicking lightly at Steve’s hands, the words strangely British for all that they’re drawled in pure Brooklyn accent. “Names. Who’ve you got?”

“Who’ve you got?” Steve returns, and they stare at each other for a few silent seconds before sheepishly turning back to their respective tasks.

The next time that Steve looks up from the staring contest he’s conducting with his nearly-blank page (he’s losing, and quite comprehensively) it’s because of an unfamiliar alarming thumping noise. However, this is almost immediately followed by a quiet, “ _Fuck_ , fuck, not my book, not my book – fucking Conan Doyle, fuck –” which, while out of context would be disturbing, instead makes Steve relax.

“No luck?” he asks instead, and Bucky groans.

“The spine was already cracked, right? Tell me it was already cracked,” he says as he stares dismally at the book in his hand. From his expression Steve would assume that he’d dropped it, but from his position on the floor the drop would’ve had to be a very forceful horizontal kind of drop.

“Probably,” he says instead, in his most supportive tone. Bucky, recognising this, scowls at him. “Did you drop it or throw it?”

Bucky’s shoulders drop even further, which Steve had not thought was possible. “Threw it,” Bucky admits. “Forgot it wasn’t mine.”

“Wasn’t it giving you anything?” Steve asks, even though he knows the answer. He doesn’t want to return to his job yet either.

“Not relevant things,” Bucky says. “I know too much about the writing process.”

“Might come in handy one day,” Steve says, a token reassurance that only serves to make Bucky glare at him through a yawn. The clock on the wall shows that it’s nearly five pm already. “Shit, Buck, I’m sorry,” Steve says. “You have work tomorrow – tonight, don’t you?”

From the way Bucky startles and then looks at the clock, he had also forgotten the fact, which – doesn’t really make Steve feel better, for all that he thinks it should. “Yeah, but –” Bucky starts, and Steve shakes his head as emphatically as he can.

“No buts,” he says. “I shouldn’t’ve kept you up this long. Go to bed –”

“Fuck off,” Bucky mutters, but he gets up and bends backwards with another yawn, spine cracking loudly. “Are you coming to bed or will you stay up a little?” Bucky asks, his tone admirably neutral.

“I’ll stay up,” Steve decides. “D’you want to be walked to work?”

“Depends who’s offering,” Bucky says, batting his eyelashes. It’s an utterly ridiculous movement, and it looks ridiculous on Bucky, but the worst thing is that it’s somehow still effective.

“Who d’you think’s offering?” Steve drawls instead, and Bucky drops the act and grins, wide and happy despite his clear fatigue.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says, and sways forward in what might be the prelude to a kiss. Steve will never know, because he panics and stands up as well.

“Have a good – sleep,” he blurts out. One side of Bucky’s mouth twists up in a strange little smile, like he knows exactly what Steve is doing but he’s not going to push.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says. “You don’t have to. You’re going to win.” His gaze is frank and serious, almost too serious for Steve to meet. It makes him feel something close to ashamed, though he couldn’t say what for.

“You –” Steve croaks, but he has nothing to say, and Bucky salvages the situation with a soft, “Night, Stevie.” His tongue curls gently around Steve’s name, and he reaches forward to squeeze Steve’s hand once, quickly, before he leaves the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**52 hrs remaining**  
Bucky’s alarm may be muffled out of consideration for the neighbours, but it’s still audible from the living room. A moment after it starts to go off, Bucky’s sleepy swearing starts to permeate the walls. It shouldn’t make Steve smile as idiotically as he does, he thinks, but there it is anyway: a smile stretches his lips, turns up the corners of his mouth for what feels like the first time since Bucky departed for bed. He lets himself get up, then, stretching luxuriously as he hadn’t been able to while seated and trying to comb through every one of his friends or acquaintances or acquaintances of acquaintances. Everyone he’s ever known, in his relatively short life.

“You still up?” Bucky asks as he comes into the living room. For all that he’s already changed into neat work clothes there’s still an obviously sleep-rumpled and possibly sleep-deprived quality about him, if the dark circles under his eyes or the way that he bangs a shoulder into the doorframe is any indication.

“I am still up, and very eager to go,” Steve confirms, and can’t quite repress a grin when Bucky groans and starts muttering about horses and holding them and disgustingly awake supersoldiers. The creeping edges of the grin earn him a punch on the arm, and then a loss of function in that same arm as Bucky decides he’s onto something and commandeers it to lean on.

“It’s fine,” he says, as Bucky leans him out of the apartment and locks the door behind them. “It’s not like I need this arm, or anything.”

“That’s why we get two of ‘em,” Bucky agrees blithely. The sky is dotted with stars when they leave the building and start walking, made all the more prominent by the lack of city lights around them. “Hate to bring it back up, but,” Bucky says, stops, sighs. Clutches Steve’s arm just that little bit tighter, for all his previous lack of nervousness. “Any progress?”

“Some,” Steve says. “We got six names from me, now.”

“Two whole new names,” Bucky says dryly.

“And I slogged my way through a bunch of news clippings about Arthur Conan Doyle and a book about P T Barnum,” Steve adds.

“Any luck with them?” Bucky asks, not sounding particularly hopeful.

“We’re not asking P T Barnum,” Steve says firmly, and Bucky snorts.

“Sure, Stevie,” he says, and then, adds “the library’ll be open tomorrow, anyway. We might have more luck there.”

“No more crime fiction,” Steve says, more relieved than anything. He’d skimmed his way through a few Agatha Christie books and it turned out that he might have grown in new and exciting directions but he still didn’t like the idea of anybody’s neighbour turning out to be a cold-blooded murderer.

“No more crime fiction,” Bucky confirms. “No more crime writers, even. Biographies instead.”

“I can handle biographies,” Steve says, more confident than he feels. Then again, biographies didn’t tend to assert that anybody on the street had the potential to transform into a killer at the drop of a hat, so he thought he’d be fine. “What time does it open?”

“Eight,” Bucky says. “Which is, incidentally –”

“When you get off,” Steve says.

“Exactly,” Bucky says. He leans a little harder into Steve, and Steve feels a little warmer. “There isn’t actually a library here in Malborough, though, we’re going to have to make the trip to Salcombe.”

“How long’s that?” Steve asks.

“Bit less than an hour’s walk,” Bucky says. “Twenty minutes on the bike.”

“I can keep up with you on the bike,” Steve offers, and Bucky raises an eyebrow, teasing.

“Someone’s confident,” he says. “You didn’t mention you could keep up with me on a bike when I picked you up down at Soar Mill.”

“Soar Mill?”

“The cove,” Bucky says, with a wave of his hand. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Well, maybe I forgot, in the face of such dazzling personality,” Steve says, which is close enough to the truth.

“I’m flattered,” Bucky says. “And – oh, I guess you should check the post office too, huh?”

And just like that, the mood quiets again. The sound of the sea seems to grow louder in the ensuing silence, though whether this is real or imagined Steve couldn’t say.

“And when does that –?”

“Nine,” Bucky says. “I can meet you there after work.” Steve nods, and has to let himself wonder whether he could get away with pretending not to get a letter. Probably not, he has to conclude, considering how much he already sticks out in this quiet sleepy village, but it’s a nice fantasy. “Hey,” Bucky says, and nudges Steve for unknown reasons. It’s certainly not to get his attention, since Bucky’s got that and he knows it. “Don’t look so gloomy. You said we could buy another few days –”

“Maybe –”

“And we only need another few days. Three, right? Two and a half, now, I guess,” Bucky says. “Surely the greatest strategic mind on the planet can figure out how to wrangle sixty hours out of his superiors.”

“Greatest strategic –” Steve sputters, briefly forgetting about the issue at hand.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Bucky asks, faux-innocent. The smile curling at the corner of his mouth is decidedly devious, and makes Steve shove at him lightly. “That’s what they all call you these days. The greatest strategic mind on the planet,” he repeats, the words gratuitously slow as they come out of his mouth.

“I,” Steve says. “I thought they were trying to sell star-spangled man with a plan.”

“Oh, they call you that too,” Bucky assures him. “But the learned men need a more respectable moniker, hm?”

“Oh no,” Steve says dismally.

“Oh yes,” Bucky returns, with far too much glee. Steve glares at him, but he can’t put much conviction behind it; it’s a weak thing, and they both know it.

“That’s not a thing,” Steve says as firmly as he can manage, but all he gets in response is an indulgent smile, which is infuriating. Or it would be, if he could bring himself to be infuriated at Bucky.

“This is me,” Bucky says then, stopping the two of them in their tracks. The wide low building Steve presumes is the air base – the looming silhouette of a plane next to the building rather gives it away – still looks to be a ways off, and Steve is about to protest that he can walk further when Bucky pushes at him lightly. “Our plan of buying another sixty hours will go to hell if the brass recognise you,” he says, which, yeah, makes sense. “Get some sleep, okay?”

“Sure thing, mom,” Steve says, tone cheerful enough that it takes Bucky a moment to catch the dig.

“Fuck you, pal, I’ll mother you all I want if it means you get some sleep,” Bucky says comfortably.

“It probably won’t, but you’re sweet for trying,” Steve says, briefly forgetting himself and patting Bucky’s face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky mumbles, swatting. “I’ll see you at the post office, then?”

“’Round nine,” Steve confirms, and squeezes Bucky’s hand once more before forcing himself to let go of it so that Bucky can head off to work.

Steve stays firmly in place until Bucky’s silhouette can no longer be distinguished from the darkened building he’s heading towards, and only then does he turn to walk back into town as slowly as a supersoldier can walk, which is, as it turns out, fairly slowly. But he likes the landscape, and in the absence of Bucky the starlight can keep him company. Not the same, nowhere near, but what would be?

He could go now, he knows, as much as he might not want to, take a bike or walk or run. Bucky’s stuck at his station for another nine hours. Even without a form of transport, even in the dead of the night and in the middle of the lazy English countryside, Steve could make it pretty damn far in nine hours.

Bucky was so sure he was going to win. Steve – less so. Less so to the point of being not sure at all. The court had a plethora of lawyers and scientists and wise men to argue their case, to prosecute Steve, and Steve himself had his wits and stubbornness and a list of seven names, most of whom were barely options and three he didn’t even know. If he left now – Bucky wouldn’t need to know. If – Steve and this nebulous someone else failed, he –

He’d still find out, Steve knew. Steve wasn’t exactly a figure who could go and die and not be noticed doing it. Bucky’d only be hurt twice over. Short of time travel, there wasn’t a way to take Bucky out of the equation, not now.

Malborough’s houses present themselves to Steve. He takes a breath, and doesn’t turn away.

~*~

**47 hrs remaining**  
The post office is in the exact same place it’d been the day before, which is something of a relief to Steve’s already anxious mind. There isn’t anything waiting for him or addressed to him, but the man behind the counter points out in what is probably a helpful manner that not all the mail has arrived yet. Or indeed been sent yet, which is another point entirely. 

By the time the clock finishes striking nine Steve is already loitering outside the post office trying his best not to look suspicious. He’s aware that the cause is probably lost, by now, but trying is in and of itself absorbing enough that he doesn’t see Bucky cycling down the street towards him until he nearly runs over Steve’s foot.

“Don’t sneak up on me,” Steve mutters halfheartedly, and Bucky grins, bumps their shoulders together comfortably, if briefly.

“What?” Bucky mock-gasps, overdramatic. “You mean you don’t have the sharpest reflexes and fastest reaction times the world has ever seen?”

Steve stares. “You’re making that up,” he accuses, finally. Bucky only grins, incorrigible.

The trip to Salcombe is silent, mostly because it’s not quite comfortable to talk while they’re cycling and running respectively; the silence seems to twist and change when they enter the library and find the small but respectable collection of biographies near the back. Steve purses his lips, surrounds himself with books, and ignores the worried glances that Bucky periodically throws his way.

“You should go,” is the first thing he actually says, after hours of picking up books and setting them aside. Bucky opens his mouth to protest, but Steve forestalls any argument by speaking first. “You still have to cycle back and you’re already ready to drop, Buck. Have you absorbed even a word of that book?”

“Sure I have,” Bucky says, attempting to summon up some indignation to go with the statement.

“Go home,” Steve says, as firm as he can make it.

“You’re not my CO,” Bucky grumbles, but he acquiesces, stands and stretches and offers Steve a hand.

“I – oh, no, I’m staying,” Steve says, and meet’s Bucky’s reproachful gaze head-on. Bucky sighs, unhappiness clear in the sound, but he yields with a nod and a quick touch to Steve’s shoulder.

“I’d tell you not to push yourself too hard, but I don’t think you know how to do that,” he says.

“I definitely do, but that’s not relevant right now,” Steve says, fully aware of the irony of following this statement up with, “Seriously, go, you look like you’re about to drop.”

“The library shuts at five thirty, you remember how to get back?” Bucky asks, and at Steve’s nod he lets himself grumble, “You’d better be home when I wake up,” but then he finally leaves, and Steve looks back down at the pile of books surrounding him and doubles down on the reading, ignoring his protesting eyes and back and joints. He’s had a lifetime of practice of that, at least.

~*~

**34 hrs remaining**  
Steve had meant to go to sleep before Bucky woke up and caught him still reading, he really had. Or at least he’d meant to pretend to be doing something else at around 10 pm. But, well, he’d lost all track of time, and only realised his mistake with a jolt when his book (Iolaus: An Anthology of Friendship, which is a refreshing change of pace because he doesn’t have to worry about how any of the subjects might take his whatever-he-has with Bucky) is pushed backwards and Bucky’s face appears in its place.

“Have you done anything but read since this afternoon?” Bucky asks, stern, but thankfully Steve has a response to this ready.

“I walked back from Salcombe,” he replies, prompt. Too prompt, because Bucky’s eyes narrow even as he nods slowly and backs away. What Bucky didn’t know (that Steve had spent the walk back intentionally forgetting to check the post office again, his nose thoroughly in a book) wouldn’t hurt him.

“Don’t move your elbow,” Bucky says then, which naturally makes Steve want to move his elbow, but a look down at the aforementioned joint shows that a cup of tea is perched next to it, which probably would be hazardous if knocked over.

“Thank you,” he says, probably too touched by the gesture.

“I have to go to work today,” Bucky says. “I’d stay, but –”

“Oh, you don’t have to –”

“I’d stay, but I asked all my colleagues last night whether they knew any dead lawyers, and then I made them promise to ask everyone they know,” Bucky says, louder. “Believe me, I would very much like to stick around and make sure your punk ass is taking care of itself.”

“My ass is fine,” Steve says, dignified. “My ass is a self-sustaining structure, even. It’ll manage.”

“Did I say punk ass? I meant smartass,” Bucky says, and Steve can’t help but roll his eyes at the less-than-imaginative wordplay.

“Go on, you’ll be late,” he says, flapping a hand at Bucky, who rolls his eyes again but leaves. This time he leaves walking backwards, and shrugs defensively at the door when Steve raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t like leaving you, so sue me,” he says, awkward and embarrassed and beautiful as he tries to find the doorknob with his hands and behind his back.

“You’re ridiculous,” Steve says, trying to tamp down on a smile and failing. That seems to be a recurring theme, with Bucky.

“I know that, you don’t need to rub it in,” Bucky says fondly, and doesn’t protest when Steve opens the door and ushers him out, since he’s clearly too chicken to do the deed himself.

~*~

**24 hrs remaining**  
“Steven Rogers,” Bucky says, stern, as soon as he closes the front door behind him. “What’s your middle name?”

“Grant,” Steve says, before he realises what he’s saying, the power he’s giving over, and by then it’s too late.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky says, even more sternly than before, although that might just be the effect of the added middle name. “Put that book down and get some sleep. God, you haven’t even moved since I left, have you?”

“I moved,” Steve protested weakly. Or, more accurately, he’d intended to move, and then forgot about it. Just as he’d intended to be in bed before Bucky got back and started scolding, which is exactly what’s happening now. “I can sleep when I’m dead,” he adds, receiving a fierce glare for the comment. “Buck, there’s one day left,” Steve says. “I can’t afford –”

“I’ll tell you what you can’t afford,” Bucky says, marching over to Steve and wiggling his book out of his grasp. “You can’t afford to turn up to your trial shitfaced and tottering because you didn’t sleep enough the night before.”

“I wouldn’t be shitfaced or tottering,” Steve protests, slightly offended at this description of him.

“My colleagues had a few names,” Bucky says, ignoring Steve’s complaints and shoving a battered piece of paper in his hand onto the table. “But one of them pointed out something interesting –”

“How much did you tell them?” Steve asks, more morbidly curious than anything.

“Enough,” Bucky says, firm. “She wondered whether anybody’d already offered to represent you, if the trial was as big as I was making it out to be. Which –”

“That’s – oh, that’s a great idea,” Steve murmurs. “We’d get names –”

“A starting point,” Bucky agrees. Then he slams Steve’s book shut, and the sound it makes is music to Steve’s ears. Not to mention his eyes; apparently he’d developed quite the tension headache while frantically scanning through books for – something, anything promising. “Well, you still need to get in touch with your terrible angel,” Bucky says. “If you can’t, then –”

“I can,” Steve says. “I just – say his name.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “Do you – want to?” he asks, after a moment of staring. “Now?”

“I – yeah, I can do that,” Steve says.

“I – I don’t – hold my hand?” he asks then, which is all kinds of pathetic, but Bucky doesn’t even blink, only holds out his hand for Steve to grasp at until both their knuckles turn white. “Clint Barton,” Steve snaps out then, fast, before he can think himself out of it. “Clint –”

At some point his eyes manage to shut themselves, so he doesn’t precisely know when time freezes again, can’t quite pinpoint a moment, but it’s not long before he realises there’s been a cessation of the sounds he hadn’t even realised he’d been listening to: quiet breaths, the rustling of pages, wind passing gently across the windows.

“Oh, he’s smart,” Clint says from next to Steve, fiddling with a handful of feathers. Steve tries not to start, and probably fails. “The high court did not want you to ask that. Or,” he amends, “they wouldn’t have wanted you to ask, if they’d thought of it. But they didn’t, so I can, so.” Steve waits. Bucky’s hand is a comfort in his grip even if it is motionless and unresponsive. “Well?” Clint asks. “Ask.”

“I –” Steve starts, and his voice is almost a croak. “Has anyone volunteered to represent me?”

“Yes,” Clint says. “Francis Galton was pretty eager –”

“Has anyone volunteered _in good faith_ ,” Steve amends, teeth slightly gritted.

“Quite a few folks,” Clint says, apparently unbothered by Steve’s mounting emotion. “Your trial’s the event of the century, you know. Some people are arguing for the millennium, even. Anyway, I was right, Cicero wanted a go – Lincoln actually seemed a bit more sympathetic to you, the court wasn’t too pleased about that –”

“Anyone I know?” Steve asks, voice coming out more defeated than anything.

“Sure, your mom, your dad,” Clint offers. “Neither of them have any experience in a court of law –”

“You think I don’t know that?” Steve snaps. “You don’t need to rub it in.”

“You’d be surprised at the things people pick up after they pass on,” Clint says with a shrug. “Abraham Erskine – you’re popular with the Abrahams, heh –”

“Erskine?” Steve frowns. “He was a doctor. He made the serum.”

“Sure, but he studied law first,” Clint says. “Or that’s what he says, anyway. I don’t know, I wasn’t watching him, I have a life. Kind of. I have better things to do.” In his agitation he manages to drop all the feathers he’d been holding, and mutters a pitiful, “Aw, feathers, no.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “So – so what happens if I pick him to be my counsel?”

“Well, he’ll have a day to prepare his case,” Clint says.

“Sure, but – do I get to meet him? Talk to him?” Steve asks. Clint nods, shakes his head, shrugs.

“Probably not,” he settles on.

“Assholes,” Steve mutters, and stares defiantly at Clint for protests that don’t come.

“You said it, pal,” Clint says instead, with a nonchalant shrug. “So should I tell this Erskine guy –?”

“I –” Steve stutters out, his mind frantically trying to go over all of his brief interactions with Erskine at once. He’d – he’d seemed kind. He’d refused to do what the Army had wanted of him without question. And, if nothing else, he probably wouldn’t want to see all the hard work he’d quite literally pumped into Steve go to waste. “Yeah, yes,” Steve says, almost wildly. “Sure, yeah.” It’s liberating and terrifying all at once – it feels something like an asthma attack, actually, even though that’s not possible in this new body.

“Alrighty,” Clint says. “Alright.” For a moment, he and Steve just stare at each other, and then Clint jerks his thumb at the ceiling, supremely awkward. “I guess I’ll just. Uh,” he says, and disappears. As soon as he disappears, the world starts to move again, and Steve huffs out a relieved sigh.

“I guess it happened, then?” Bucky asks. His hand, gripped tightly by Steve, attempts to wiggle and finds no room to do so. “Are those feathers on the floor?”

“Sorry,” Steve mutters, but he only loosens his grip very slightly. Bucky, thankfully, doesn’t seem to mind. “And – um, yeah, he dropped them.”

“Dropped them, huh,” Bucky mutters, leaning forward to pick them up, turning them around in his hands. “So he showed.”

“Yeah,” Steve confirmed, mind re-tracing every step of what’d just happened. “He said – he said some people stepped forward, but I, uh, picked –”

“You already picked?” Bucky asks, straightening with alarm. 

“Someone I knew!” Steve assures him “Someone I knew. The doctor, actually, the one who invented the serum –”

“Oh,” Bucky says, resettling. But his other hand has made its way over to grip Steve’s, and his face is still tense and lined. “But – a doctor? He wouldn’t –” he breaks off, wiggles his hand in a way that is presumably meant to suggest _know what he’s doing_.

“Apparently he trained as a lawyer before he was a doctor,” Steve says, but the doubt is already setting in.

“Apparently,” Bucky says, and the scepticism in his voice and on his face is unmistakeable, until he looks back up at Steve, at which point he softens, melts. “Don’t – I’m just permanently suspicious of things, don’t – mind me –”

“You might be right, though,” Steve says. “There’s nothing that says Clint has to tell me the truth, he’s not under any obligation.” Clint hadn’t seemed like someone who would lie to Steve like that, admittedly. But he’s seen Clint a grand total of three times, for a few minutes each. He can’t even begin to pretend that he knows the other man.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bucky says, firm. “You’ve picked now.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “He’s – he was – he is?” he asks, briefly distracted before refocusing on the topic at hand. “He was a good guy, when I knew him. And he, y’know, I’m hoping he’ll kind of want me to keep living, I’m the only one with his serum.”

“Yeah, that’s a point,” Bucky says, relaxing more. “He’s got a stake in it.”

“Or, I mean, I hope so,” Steve demurs. “But if he doesn’t, we should get a start on arguments. Pleas? I don’t know the legal term.”

“Sleep?” Bucky asks, but he pulls out a piece of paper and a pen.

“Tonight,” Steve promises. “I’ll be fresh as a daisy for the trial.”

“I got tomorrow off,” Bucky says, and slants a warning look at Steve before the other man can begin to protest. “I can stick around.”

“That’d – be great, really,” Steve lets himself admit, because it had been a relief, to be able to hold Bucky close even in a moment where he was frozen in time.

~*~

**12 hrs remaining**  
To his credit, Bucky hadn’t exactly nagged, but the looks that he’d thrown Steve had grown increasingly frequent over the past hours, and they were so _very_ reproachful it’d felt like he had, a little. He’d gotten Steve to eat a quick and dirty lunch and dinner, to go out for a walk around the block around four times and a proper run once, and Steve hadn’t admitted it but they’d all helped, immensely. The air out here was clear and clean and tinged with salt. He’d also made Steve go and check the post office again on his run, and Steve had brought back the good news that the army did not trust random telegrams and would be sending down Agent Carter to bring him back to base, which was one concern off their mind, at least.

Finally, though, the combined force of Steve’s own body and Bucky’s quick concerned glances wear Steve down enough that he throws his already-abused pen down and runs restless hands through his hair. “Alright,” he says. “Alright, I’ll go have a nap. Happy?”

“Very,” Bucky says primly, and Steve squints at him.

“It’s fuckin – it’s way past your bedtime, asshole,” he mutters, and Bucky shrugs, conceding the point.

“Sure, but I don’t have to go to work tomorrow,” he says. “I can catch up on sleep but not on your trial.” The statement would be more convincing if his eyes weren’t so red or his shoulders so tense.

“Alright, c’mon,” Steve says, offering Bucky a hand. For a moment Bucky just blinks at it, like he’s not quite sure what to do with an item in front of his face that’s not scribbled-on paper.

“C’mon?” he asks, once he gets with the program and takes Steve’s hand.

“We’re both goin’ to bed,” Steve says, firm.

“Fine,” Bucky says. “Fine.”

Steve’s not quite sure how it happens, but he ends up spooned by Bucky, limbs pinned down and back almost uncomfortably warm. “Um,” he says. “Are you – comfortable?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Bucky says. “You good?”

“I – yeah,” Steve says, his voice coming out more shyly than it has permission to. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Bucky says. Steve can feel warm breath puffing along his shoulder. “Go to bed, punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve mutters, but obeys.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s dreaming. He’s sitting on a wide staircase, looking out across a room so cavernous he can’t see where it ends. It might not even be a room, he thinks, merely a bleak grey reality.

“For all that we look down on you, sometimes literally,” a voice says from next to him; when Steve turns, abruptly, to look at the newcomer, she’s in greyscale as well, “at least you’ve still got colours.”

“Is it always like this, here?” Steve asks, and the woman nods.

“You get used to it,” she says.

“Sorry, I – we haven’t met,” Steve says, more of an answer than a question.

“No,” the woman confirms, a slight smile on her face. She’s small and lithe, but something about the way she moves – or rather, the way she doesn’t move, the intense concentrated stillness around her – makes Steve wary.

“Why am I here?”

“Clint’s been telling me about your – troubles, with finding a defendant,” the woman says. “I’m here to help.”

“Recommend me some more eugenicists?” Steve asks drily, and the woman laughs, low.

“Don’t be too harsh on him,” she says. “We have our orders; I’m sure that’s something you can understand. But no,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. “No more eugenicists. Socrates and Plato, instead,” she offers, gesturing, and when Steve turns to one side there’s a moving wall in front of him, offering name plaques and pictures and small statues. “This is where we put our greatest thinkers.”

“I don’t know any of these people,” Steve says. “That’s what was giving me such trouble. There’s a lot of my life,” he adds, turning back to the unfamiliar woman, who is watching him with a slight smile, “that people might find it in them to disagree with.”

“You’ve only a few hours left,” the woman says. “You can’t really afford to be fussy, right now, can you?”

“Says who?” Steve demands, because he might already have picked someone but this woman doesn’t seem to know that, or if she does she’s pretending not to, and he wants to know what her game is.

“Says the desire to win this thing, but if you don’t –?” the woman says, letting the question hang in the air – did they have air, here? – in the space between them.

“I do,” Steve says. “Of course I do.”

“Then _look_ , and _pick someone_ ,” she says, and waves her hand at the wall of constant and probably untrustworthy suggestions again, except this time her gesture is careless in a way that Steve suspects she isn’t, and her hand flips up to point, for a brief moment, at the space past the wall, which is clouded and moving downwards, as though – as though he’s moving upwards.

When Steve looks downwards, the ground is much farther away than he recalls it being at the start of his dream. Even now, it seems to grow smaller. The woman’s voice echoes through his head: _we have our orders_. His heart speeds up, and his eyes remain fixed on the distant ground as he asks, “What’s moving, the stairs or the wall?”

“Clint tells me you’re pretty smart, too,” the woman says, which is – all Steve needs to know, really, for him to get up and start walking back down the stairs. Grey land is visible, just barely. He’s travelled an alarming distance in such a short span of time, or maybe he’s just been utterly stupidly distracted for an absurdly long time – for all that Steve tries to walk down the stairs, and then jog, and then run, it feels like it only speeds up against anything he tries. It feels like he’s getting nowhere, and his chest contracts. He can’t let them have him, not now –

Then: unexpected, incongruous, Bucky’s voice. Calling his name, once, twice, a third time. Something that feels like a hand on his shoulder. Steve closes his eyes and throws himself downwards.


	5. Chapter 5

**6 hrs remaining**

The impact Steve’s expecting never comes. When he opens his eyes it’s to Bucky’s worried, tight face.

“You were thrashing,” he murmurs. “Stevie –”

“They almost got me,” Steve tries to say, and ends up gasping out through breaths he didn’t know he was short of. “They almost – she –”

“You’re fine,” Bucky says, and because he’s miraculous he pulls Steve into an embrace, comforting and warm and grounding in a way that Steve needs, desperately. “Stevie, you’re fine. You’re here. You came back. Put your hands between us, you’re cold.”

Steve hadn’t noticed that, either, not until Bucky forcibly tucks his hands between them and they tingle uncomfortably in the warmth as blood starts running through them again. He closes his eyes again, tries to still, tries to focus on Bucky, the warmth and smell and comfort of him.

“What time –”

“It’s two, two in the morning,” Bucky says. “It’s alright. Six hours left.”

“Six hours,” Steve says on an exhale, like it’s a mantra. “Six hours.” They’d slept for about six hours, then. That was a good amount. Bucky is carding gentle fingers through Steve’s hair, and it’d make Steve want to fall back asleep if he wasn’t so angrily terrified at the thought of another trap.

“They tried to _trick_ me,” he says, still angry, still scared. Still unsure of which emotion is currently dominant. “They – there was a staircase, and I didn’t notice it was going up until –”

“Until?” Bucky asks, gentle.

“Until it was almost too late,” Steve says, quiet, because he’s sure it would’ve been, if they’d reached the top of that staircase. If the woman hadn’t flicked her hand to draw Steve’s attention to the clouds that had seemed to be moving. Just the thought makes Steve’s chest contract again.

“So,” Bucky says. “What’d’you want to do now?” His face and eyes are open, ready to do what Steve decides. There are slight dark circles under his eyes and anxiety in the line of his shoulders, but he’s still sitting there, willing to give up more sleep and peace of mind.

“No, I – you were sleeping, weren’t you?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods. “Go back to sleep, Buck, it’s okay.” Bucky looks like he wants to contest this, but Steve pulls him closer on the small bed and he relaxes.

“Talk to me,” he says, gentle.

“About what?” Steve asks, and Bucky manages to shrug even though he’s lying down.

“Anything you want,” he says, like it’s that easy. “You’re anxious. Talk to me.”

“I –” Steve says. “I mean, I might die tomorrow. I don’t want –” He means to say _I don’t want to die_ , but his disobedient mouth turns it into, “I don’t want to leave you. I mean,” he fumbles, feeling his face heat up in the dark, “I mean, there’s a lot of things, I don’t want to die, y’know, in general, but – you. I don’t want to leave you.” 

“I – I don’t want you to leave me either,” Bucky says. “But I think you knew that.”

“You’re why they let me appeal, you know,” Steve says, because he’s been thinking more about this since their focus shifted from lawyers to arguments and really, it’s only fair that Bucky knows.

“Me?”

“I told Clint I’d met you, and – we had – have – so much potential. Possibility,” Steve says on a sigh. “I thought then that we could be something. And now –” Bucky’s silent, and Steve winces internally. He and Bucky both knew he was going to leave after this. And it’s not as though men like them could truly make something together, really. “Anyway,” Steve says. “That’s what I told them. I thought – I don’t know, I thought you should know, I guess.”

For a moment, there’s only silence, Bucky’s breathing deep and even enough that Steve almost thinks he’s gone to sleep, or started faking it to avoid conversation, but then – “And,” Bucky says, slowly, “when you told Clint that, did you – but was it, y’know, for the chance to stay alive?”

The thought is strange enough that it takes a moment to filter through Steve’s mind. “No!” he exclaims, when it finally sinks in. “Well, I mean, yes, but it – I meant it, Buck, every word.”

“You did, huh,” Bucky murmurs, and even though it’s dark and there’s no source of light in the room when Bucky starts to smile Steve can feel it against his skin, the loveliest sensation.

“Yeah,” Steve says, if only to fill the silence in the room, and his voice has gone all soft without his consent.

“I think you’re right,” Bucky says, in a voice that’s barely above a whisper. “We could be something. We could go back to Brooklyn and find out.”

“You could be my roommate,” Steve suggests, and Bucky’s smile grows.

“Because Captain America _really_ needs to save on rent, and all.”

“Oh, for sure,” Steve says, trying to be serious and failing utterly. “Captain America has a responsibility to be as fiscally conscientious as possible, and sharing an apartment is a great way to save money.”

“And stress,” Bucky adds.

“Stress?”

“You don’t need to go cruising in those shitty underground bars or try and triple-check that a guy’s, y’know, into you, not if you have a _roommate_ ,” Bucky declares, and snorts when Steve laughs.

“I’d like to find out what we can be, Bucky Barnes,” Steve says, bringing Bucky’s hand up to kiss his fingertips. He nearly pokes his own goddamn eye out, but it’s worth it for the next smile that Bucky smothers into Steve’s skin.

“I think there’s a natural culmination to this conversation that you’re putting off, Stevie,” he says, and his smile is audible.

“Oh, and what’s that?” Steve asks, dry as a bone.

“A kiss, of course,” Bucky says.

“Uh-huh,” Steve says, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. “And why should I be the one to kiss you, huh? Why can’t you kiss me?”

“You’re an asshole, but I guess I can do that,” Bucky says, faux-longsuffering, and in an instant Steve feels lips on his chin, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“It’s not that dark, Barnes –” Steve starts to complain, which is obviously the time that Bucky chooses to kiss him properly.

It’s not just the culmination of their conversation; it’s the culmination of three days of flirting and smiling and living in each others’ pockets. It’s something that, Steve thinks, would’ve happened a lot sooner if their finding each other had been genuine, if they’d both been meant to be alive. All of which is to say: it’s lovely, it’s gorgeous, it’s enough to make Steve’s entire body flush warm. Bucky’s kisses stretch time out into a scene, alive and glorious, a million small parts to him that Steve can’t possibly appreciate all at once.

“Hey, no,” he remembers, once they’ve pulled away from each other enough for Steve to regain some of his senses, which is both an indictment of his state of mind around Bucky and a compliment to Bucky’s very distracting self. “I wasn’t going to – I mean –”

“You mean?” Bucky asks, and thankfully he sounds more amused than annoyed at Steve’s antics.

“I just – I might – I didn’t want to do this,” Steve says. “Not now, with – all of this hanging over us.”

“I know. Didn’t I saw I knew what you were doing?” Bucky asks, which, yes he had, but still – “You’re not going to die, Steve.”

“Oh, no?” Steve asks, and Bucky is close enough to Steve, now, that Steve can see the utter certainty In his eyes.

“Nah,” Bucky says. “You’re a punk. You’ll fight them. You’ll win.”

_I hope you’re right_ , Steve can’t quite bring himself to say. He has spent his entire life being scrappy and stubborn, but he doesn’t know how much that counts for in a court of law, let alone a court of law from another world. There had to be a time when his stubbornness was going to wind up useless, but this – this is the most fuckin’ inconvenient time for that to happen.

~*~

**2 hrs remaining**  
As nice as lying in bed and trading gentle kisses was, and as peaceful as it felt in the moment, it didn’t take long for the two of them to wind each other up into varying states of nervousness. They ended up stumbling out of bed, dragging various blankets and sheets along with them to the living room as they attempt, yet again, to construct arguments and bring them to logical conclusions.

“Stop swearing in your arguments,” Bucky has to tell Steve, time and time again, leaning over to cross out the biggest and most emphatic words on the page. “Courts of law don’t appreciate swearing.”

“I _feel_ like swearing at them,” Steve grumbles without fail, every time this occurs. “They literally want me to die, they can deal with me throwing some fucks and shits their way.”

“No swearing,” Bucky says firmly, and, well, Steve sees his point even if he wishes he didn’t have to.

~*~

**5 mins remaining**  
“What time did he appear, when he told you –?” Bucky asks, voice hushed as the clock ticks past 8.00 and the 8.05. They’re both sitting on the cold wooden floor, their focus on the arguments waning steadily as the trial had approached with intimidating steadiness.

“It was a little past eight,” Steve says. “Shouldn’t be long now.” He and Bucky have their hands intertwined so that it’s uncertain who is holding who; either way, Steve tightens his grip and shoots a grin at the man opposite him. “Wish me luck?”

“Good luck, you idiot,” Bucky says, in a much softer tone than the words would seem, and leans forward to press a clumsy kiss, off-centre, to the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Come back quick, hm?”

“I’ll try” Steve says, taking another deep breath. He’s going to come back, and he’s certain of that; and more than that, his certainty isn’t borne out of naiveite or sheer hopefulness. Steve has spent a lifetime fighting, and determination goes a long way. This won’t be any different.

“You’ll do, Rogers, none of this wishy-washy trying business,” Bucky says. 

“I will,” Steve says, firmer. A court can’t take him away from Bucky, from his _life_. He won’t let it, simple as that.

Clint appears as soon as the little clock at the side of Bucky’s wall clicks over to 8.11. Bucky slumps, abruptly forced asleep; Steve puts him down as gently as he can manage, leaning Bucky against his sofa before any sharp edges can get to him first.

“You ready?” Clint asks, and Steve takes a shuddering breath, runs his fingers over the messy papers in his pocket that make up his argument for staying alive.

“As I’ll ever be, I guess,” he says, and presses a hand to Bucky’s hair once more before taking Clint’s proffered hand.

The sensation he feels when Clint tugs is indescribable – nausea-inducing but not, a whirlwind but utterly still, white and grey and black simultaneously. Steve has to close his eyes against the onslaught of sensation, but that only makes it worse because his other senses go into overdrive, and then he opens his eyes and he’s in a greyscale world again, and a kindly face is smiling at him.

“Good to see you again, my boy,” Erskine says, offering a hand. His voice is still lightly Germanic, and his spectacles and beard are exactly the same as Steve last saw them.

“I’m – yeah, you too,” Steve manages to stutter out, grasping at Erskine’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out then. It’d been something that’d occurred to him far too late, that he is probably, in some way, partially responsible for Erskine’s death. He’d been determined to keep it quiet, to not stir up any negative emotions in the man who will be defending him, but seeing Erskine like this, greyscale, _here_ , is – he has to apologise for it.

“Nonsense, young man,” Erskine says. “That was, arguably, my own fault, for working on that serum. How is it feeling, by the way?”

“Fine,” Steve says. “Just fine. You did a great job.”

“If only I had my equipment,” Erskine says wistfully. “Perhaps a few hours –”

“This feels like a good time to tell you that the court’s waiting,” Clint says from behind Steve, where he is waiting next to an intimidatingly large door, and Erskine sighs.

“Yes, they would be,” he agrees, and for all that his voice is bland it still seems annoyed. He turns back to Steve, peers over round glasses at him. “Are you ready?”

“It figures that we wouldn’t get any time together to prepare this very important case,” Steve says drily. He doesn’t appreciate whatever the court is trying to pull, to be sure.

Clint looks apologetic, and peeks once more through the door. “I don’t think so, man. Sorry.”

“Not to worry,” Erskine says, withdrawing a sheaf of crumpled paper from him breast pocket, proffering them to Steve. “I took the liberty of watching as you made your arguments, and added my own.”

“You really were a lawyer?” Steve asks. The paper is annotated to hell and back, and for all that it’s a nice gesture for Erskine to offer the paper to Steve, Steve can barely make out what’s written on it.

“I was,” Erskine says. “I was fairly young when I passed the bar. Young enough to get roped into a friend’s silly science project. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“The Court of Appeal sits to consider the case,” a loud and booming voice says from the other side of the door Clint is leaning on, loud and booming enough for Clint to nearly fall over with the shock of it.

“Fuck, don’t do that,” he whispers at the door, like that will help, and then looks back urgently. “Seriously, they don’t want to be kept waiting, guys.”

“You think you can win this?” Steve asks Erskine as they walk towards the door. It’s a ridiculous question and one that can’t really be answered, but its saving grace is that Steve is asking mostly out of sheer curiosity – they’re going to win this case, whether or not Erskine thinks they can. Erskine pats Steve’s arm firmly anyway, so that is probably a yes.

“Come _on_ ,” Clint hisses, and Steve hurries up.

~*~

**0 mins remaining**  
“The Court of Appeal sits to consider the case,” the same loud voice says as Erskine hurries to pull Steve to their seats, “of the Department of Records vs. Captain Steven Grant Rogers of the American Army. He claims negligence, and superior rights and responsibilities arising out of that negligence.”

The man seated behind the table at the back of the room does not look at all like a judge, probably because he’s wearing a trench coat and an eyepatch. For all that he’s missing an eye, his glare, once fixed upon Steve, is a fearsome thing. But, finally, this is something Steve knows how to handle, and he juts his chin out and glares right back. “He is appealing for remission of the date of his term on Earth and for a reconsideration of his case. It has been decided to allow this appeal. The jury will decide whether it is successful.”

The jury, twelve people of varying origins and ages, shift slightly uncomfortably in their seats at the side of the room. It is, Steve realises, a very small room that they’re in. “Members of the jury,” the judge says, “do not allow yourselves to be influenced by anything but the facts, and by your conscience.” The jury all nod at this, some more solemnly than others. All of them watch Steve with keen, interested eyes.

“The counsel for the prosecution will take his place; the counsel for the defence will take his place” the judge says, and a fierce man with impressive whiskers and Erskine nod at each other stiffly. “I call upon the prosecution to open the case.”

“Thank you, Your Honour,” the counsel for the prosecution says. For all that the court had a millenia’s worth of people to choose from, the man they’ve chosen is, as far as Steve knows, unrecognisable, with a nervous habit of wiping his forehead.“This case is but simple; the defendant was scheduled and supposed to die at 7.42 am on the 4th of March. That he did not was a mistake, certainly, but nothing to be granting extra lifespans for; it can be said that his borrowed twenty hours –”

“I object,” Steve says promptly, springing upright, in the same instant that Erskine stands to say, much more respectfully, “Your Honour, I object.”

“Well, which one of you is the counsel?” the judge asks somewhat irritably, and Steve sits down. “The word ‘borrowed’ that the counsel for the prosecution so enthusiastically uses –” Erskine says, nodding at the counsel in question, who goes alarmingly red in the face, “indicates a lack of true ownership; my client certainly did not borrow the twenty hours but was given them –”

“Why, that’s preposterous –” the counsel to the prosecution sputters. The angrier he gets, the redder his face becomes and the more flowery his language, until it’s reached a point where his speech is filled with words that, individually, Steve definitely knows and understands, but strung together as they are, they’re rendered incomprehensible. The judge lets this continue until the jury also start to look noticeably overwhelmed, at which point he bangs his gavel on the table once, loudly, and the room falls silent.

“Sustained,” he says. “The defendant did not borrow the twenty hours. Continue.”

“The next point,” the counsel says, “is what could possibly have happened in twenty hours to give the defendant a right to stay on Earth. How does it – how _can_ it – overrule the laws that have governed us for millenia?” Then the counsel is off again, and Steve is half-convinced that the speech he’s making is just to kill time, or to mire Erskine and Steve in confusion; he can’t think of another reason that the counsel would be comparing tea and senators, at least. Steve is ready to spring to his feet and launch into his own arguments, but Erskine keeps a hand on his wrist, shakes his head pointedly every time they make eye contact.

Once again, the judge waits until the jury look thoroughly overwhelmed before he bangs his gavel, a hint of schadenfreude in his expression. Erskine is still sitting to attention, though, his expression unchanged.

“Counsel for the defence,” the judge says, nodding at Erskine.

“Our case begins simply: _possibility_ ,” Erskine says, and proceeds to somehow create a whole and cohesive argument out of the single idea.

“If they’ve fallen in love –” the counsel for the prosecution says, and Steve stands up, ignores the wave of whispers that goes through the jury.

“We’re not in love,” he says, which is not, he’s fairly sure, standard proceedings for a court, but neither the counsel nor the judge are making a move to stop him, and he ploughs onwards. “I’m not dumb enough to say I am. But I could be. Your mistake gave us the chance to meet. And we like each other, a lot, and I think I could love him. I think I want to.”

“Want to!” the counsel scoffs. “This court would never rule on someone’s _wants_ –”

“That’s on you!” Steve argues back, blood heated. He knows how, at the very least, to argue. “Everything that Bucky and I could be, that’s on _you_. And there’s nothing fair about cutting off possibility.”

“Possibilities are cut off all the time in death –”

“Not possibilities _you gave_ ,” Steve snaps. “Not possibilities that _you allowed to flourish_. Not - fuck, borrowed my ass,” Steve snaps at the counsel. “Barton missed me, he gave me those hours, and I met Bucky in them –”

“ _Language_ ,” the counsel for the prosecution sputters. “How can I make you understand that _those twenty hours_ are _not that special_ , not every possibility you formed in those twenty hours are sacrosanct – why, I could make a case for you _stealing_ twenty hours –”

“But you can’t, because Barton admitted his mistake to me, and I don’t see why I should get my life taken away when it was given back to me,” Steve says. “You lost any right to claim it as soon as he missed –”

“And, what, you’re immortal now?” the counsel scoffs, and the judge clears his throat more loudly than should be possible.

“I want to speak to Barnes,” he says.

“I put him to sleep,” Clint says from where he’s apparently perched on the bookshelf. “He can be called up.”

“Do it,” the judge orders, and Clint disappears. The judge turns his eye onto Steve. “What if I told you it was him or you?” he asks. “One of you has to go. Who?”

“That’s not fair,” Steve says, almost ready to deck this guy. “That’s a dirty fuckin’ trick, don’t you dare –”

“Who?” the judge asks, and Steve’s voice tapers away, mouth twisting down.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Erskine says.

“Me,” Steve says anyway. “Of course it’d be me.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Erskine sighs, as Clint pops back into sight.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky says, looking slightly green from the trip. “You look like you’ve been arguing.”

“It’s just like an alleyway,” Steve confirms, and Bucky gives him a weak grin.

“Mr Barnes,” the judge says, not-so-subtly stepping in between them, “are you in love with Mr Rogers?”

“Uh,” Bucky says, apparently waiting for this to be revealed as a trick question. When it’s not, and the room is silent around him, he says, “I mean – I can’t, really, I’ve known him for three days, but – I might. Be starting to. I could be. So,” he continues, when nobody speaks, “you shouldn’t, y’know, take him away.”

“And if I told you that one of you had to go, you or him,” the judge says. “Who would you pick?”

“I –” Bucky says.

“Don’t – don’t fuckin’ answer that, Buck, that’s a dirty fucking trick and it’s got nothing to do with the trial –” Steve says, even more impassioned this time.

“Me,” Bucky says.

“You self-sacrificing _idiot_ ,” Steve half-yells. Of course the person he had to’ve met and made something with would go and pull _this_.

“I bet you said the exact same thing,” Bucky says. “I fuckin’ dare you to look me in the eyes and say you told them I should go.”

“Why the fuck would I do that –”

“You can’t really argue with that,” the judge says to the jury and the counsel for the prosecution, who looks nearly apoplectic.

The jury all mutter indecisively, and the counsel for the prosecution snaps, “I _still fail_ to see how any possibilities formed in those twenty hours are any more special, any less breakable –”

“I thought I was going to die, in that plane,” Steve says. “I thought I was, and I didn’t, and that’s on _you_. And when I met Bucky we let ourselves grow closer because we thought something might be in the cards –”

“Think of it as handing candy to a baby,” Erskine says smoothly to the jury. “You can’t take it back once it’s been eaten.”

“What you’re trying to do is the – the equivalent of performing an operation without anaesthesia on the baby to get your goddamn candy back,” Steve says, bristling.

“The metaphor is slightly tortured,” Erskine says, after a pause, “but the point comes through.”

“What it is,” Steve says, trying to say this as clearly as he can, “is that we formed – a bond, emotionally, under certain expectations. It’d be unfair to take back those expectations now, after the bond has been formed, because of a mistake on your part. And isn’t that what this is about? Fairness?”

“They love each other,” the judge says. “It’s undeniable, no matter what they say. They’d die for each other.”

“I’d –” Steve starts to protest, but Erskine steps on his foot heavily, which – okay, yeah, Steve doesn’t want to argue against this. Not when the counsel for the prosecution is staring down at his hands in silence, not when the jury are all nodding along, and certainly not when Bucky is watching the judge’s face with badly concealed hope.

“Will you consider your verdict?” the judge asks the jury, who wilt under his gaze.

They barely need to deliberate with each other before one of them steps forward to say, “Case for the defendant, Your Honour.”

Bucky lets out a peculiar noise and sits down heavily, right on the floor. In an instant, Steve finds himself next to Bucky, his fingers digging tight into the other man’s shoulders.

“The appeal is granted,” the judge says, almost nonchalantly, like this isn’t a big deal, and signs something with a quill, of all things. “Will both counsel approve it?”

“Very generous,” Erskine says, upon seeing the paper.

“I would be willing to grant this, if I can get your assurance that this will not establish a precedent, Your Honour,” the counsel for the prosecution says, wringing his hands.

“I won’t be making it one any time soon,” the judge says. “I think we can all agree that these were extenuating circumstances to the extreme.”

“To the extreme,” the counsel for the prosecution says, and wipes his forehead.

~*~

**postscript : a second later**  
“Oh my god,” Bucky says hollowly from the floor. “Steve – you – you did it –”

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” Steve says, but he’s on the floor with his arms wrapped around his fuckin’ idiot, so it’s fair enough that Bucky does not take this insult seriously. “Besides, weren’t you the one who was so sure I’d win?”

“Shut up, shut up, oh my god,” Bucky warbles through a laugh. “You won, you did it. Of course I knew you would, but – _but_ –”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s head. “Yeah.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Bucky says fervently, and Steve’s confused for a moment before he looks up and realises that Bucky is talking to Erskine.

“He did most of the work himself,” Erskine says with a shrug. “This was a very non-traditional trial.”

“Still,” Steve says, and proffers a hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Erskine says, taking it.

“So, hey, you’ll be wanting to get back, huh?” Clint asks, from where he’s still perched on top of the bookshelf. He tries to jump down, at Steve’s nod, and manages to knock down almost an entire shelf of books on the way. “Whoops,” he says. “Let’s go.”

The trip back is faster and less nauseating than the one there, or so it seems. It is entirely possible that Steve is still on a high of winning his right to be alive.

“So hey,” is the first thing Bucky says to him, when they’re deposited in a sprawling heap across his living room floor. “You did it.”

“We won,” Steve says.

“We won,” Bucky repeats, and the smile on his face is a beautiful thing. “I know.”

Steve leans down for a kiss, then; the first of what is hopefully many to come.

**Author's Note:**

> once again, the lovely art was done by [DrowningByDegrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees) \- show her some love, please \o/
> 
> rebloggable post on tumblr [here](https://layersofsilences.tumblr.com/post/171292139332/to-catch-a-soul-chapter-1-drowningbydegrees)!


End file.
